In the back of my mind, Ireland existed as one of the holy spots on Earth that I would someday visit. A page about Dublin in our English reading comprehension class in school. A description of "The Emerald Isle" in the Encyclopedia. Nora Roberts' "Jewels of The Sun" when I was a teenager. And then a tape of the show, "The Lord of The Dance". These and many more were all the flashcards that came up in my life that enticed me and told me that Ireland was a magical place. I even secretly hoped for so long that I would someday have a place in Ireland...Would I?

After my pilgrimage in Bali, I came back reeling to my corporate job. The yearning began to grow uncontrollably for a place to truly belong in. My heart is still waiting for me in Bali...what would Ireland do to me?

It came as a longing for cheap food, the kind you find in Saudi Arabia in every corner. Foul. Tamees, Shawerma. Roz Bukhari. It’s oddly uncommon here in the UAE. But then maybe that is due to the fact that Dubai is levels more organized than, say, Jeddah. City life, run by frigid corporate systems, has been getting to me. I was starting to feel desensitized and isolated in a shell of routine and pretenses. I wanted to come alive again even if only for a few hours. Eating out in Dubai, I am often presented with dazzling options. But I needed more. Perhaps the better word is less.So I sent a shoutout to my friends on Facebook. Who knows where I can find cheap food places in Dubai? By cheap I did not mean 30 dhs cheap, or even 20 dhs cheap. By cheap I meant developing country cheap where you not only sample the flavor of the food but also the flavor of the person who made it. Osama responded to me right away. A Saudi entrepreneur who lives in Dubai and a friend of mine. Satwa, he said. In a big dazzle ‘em city, it’s the part that reminds me of Jeddah the most. So off we went in search of the drippiest, greasiest food the price of birdseed. Cheap food we did find and so much of it. But what we did not except to find were two things that we could not acquire when eating out in Dubai: simplicity and pure childlike fun. Here are three places we visited: It promised tea under a blue metal canopy surrounded by a hedge. It was a an inviting enclosure that, in the dying of the daylight, glowed in all of its green-tinged fluorescent glory. It was hot and humid and absolutely perfect for Indian food.

We sat on hard metal chairs and laughed our hearts out it was simple and silly. All the cosmopolitan pretenses fell apart to let our inner Jeddawi children through. This was all very familiar…Indian food came at last along with sweet lassi and not a drop of tea.

The conversation came faster: The meaning of life. The masks we put on in our lives in Saudi Arabia. Spiritual ascension. The real meaning of depression. Intuition…and all those gorgeous topics.

The waiter, we tried to engage but he very little English and was as shy as a moth so we left him alone. He was not a part of our quest this evening. But I knew someone would be.

Second: The hardware store. The two Indian men must have thought I was a loon because of the way I was cooing at how the PVC pipes were stacked. To them, the pipes were simply items to be used in menial jobs. I saw lines and shapes, art tumbling around the store. For some reason I’ve always been fascinated by hardware stores. Never used anything, mind you, but tools present to me possibilities of all the things you could do. And nothing is more seductive than that.

This store was not the only spot where I could see lines and shapes. I saw lines and shapes everywhere, in the light breaking the shadows and in the people in their small moments and almost imperceptible expressions that gave away everything about them. In Satwa, in contrast with the rest of Dubai, life was revelational and revealing. Osama and I felt it in ourselves. No pretenses. More wonder. A sort of melding with the weather so that we ourselves became the humid breath of the world.

Third: We found our guy. The character of the evening. 3ammo Al Irani, I called him. You know how you can get into a deep conversation with a stranger and then realize hours after you’ve parted that you never asked them their name?

Osama and I walked into an apothecary, quite by mistake. My impression, by the straw hats hung outside the door was that it was a handwoven goods store. As soon as you walk in, however, you are overpowered by all those spices and perfumes that, when stored up together for too long begin to weave a thick magic of their own.

Some of the ingredients were used for magic too. The Iranian man told me that Morroccan ladies often come to him to buy raw pearls in a jar to cast love spells with. The guy must have been in his sixties or above. As sweet and shrewd as Saffron. We talked with him about the ingredients in his store, his life of forty years in Dubai, the Arab world. He spoke to us with an acquired Arabic that often tripped and fell and quite endearingly. Finally, I got to ask him the question I’ve been meaning to ask someone in Satwa who had something of meaning to offer. “What is happiness to you?” He smiled like he’d been waiting to be asked. He immediately told us with the confidence of a man who has lived long enough to exclude all the wrong answers: “My health. If you have your health then you don’t need anything else. And gratitude. Everything else comes when you have these two.” I was humbled. Could I ever come to this conclusion myself in my own path? Or something similarly bare and stripped of excess? “Your shop is all about health, isn’t it?” “Yes! Yes it is!” he said, laughing.

There are pockets of genuine experiences in Dubai, opposite to what I thought. Ever since I moved here, I felt the pretenses that people wore, like chain mail but transparent. They were different from the pretenses that people in Saudi wore. In Saudi, it was often fear and shame that caused people to wear masks to hide who they were and what they thought. While here, in Dubai, my hunch was that what drove these pretenses was survival, fear of failure, ambition, competitiveness and the constant race with time. I can feel myself wearing these pretenses as I head off to work in that big glass building that I am currently bound to. I become hard and efficient and mindful of all my mistakes - because there can’t be any! In Satwa, where money is not the friend or the enemy, and only health is happiness - as the Iranian man would put it - I stopped feeling like a machine and the juices of the human fruit that I was, spilled out. I miss this, I thought to myself. The corporate world teaches us to count our fun by the minute, by the day and put it all in the system. You watch the clock. You time your meals. You have two days at the end of the week to begin to find yourself again and by the time you’ve found yourself, it’s the first day of the week all over again. So where am I going with all this….? It’s a question I ask myself everyday. But I do know, that I was want more evenings like this in places like this, Satwa style, where you peel yourself and operate in the world in complete abandon.

So next time when you think of eating out in Dubai, how about you drop the glam for an hour or two? You might find yourself.

Crystalline Page and I met on instagram. It was one of those evenings when you’re unknowingly browsing for connection and you find it.

Crystalline Page lives in the US and I live in the UAE, a continent and a half and one big ocean apart. She’s around my age and interestingly enough, we both shared similar stories. She was raised catholic, I was raised devout Muslim. We both forayed through a path of deep questioning. After high school, she went to embark on a new journey to study as a nurse in college. I started off studying interior design, which I absolutely abhorred. We both left these fields when we decided we couldn’t take it anymore. It didn’t align to who we truly are as spiritual beings. And we are both currently shaping our paths as healers, each in our own way.

We decided one evening to have a conversation about intuition. This has been an obsession of mine and a speciality of hers for a while. I believe I’ve always had an intuitive sense for what is good and what is bad for me. But my intuition would not have come alive fully, winged and growling, had it not been for a damaging event that occurred in my life as a fourteen-year-old when my gut positively screamed at me to the point that I had a stomach ache. After that I became aware my body’s signals. My obsession started, however, recently, a year ago to be exact, when I felt pressured to make some big life decisions and needed that guidance so desperately. In the process, in the throes of my obsession, I may have tangled myself up a bit the way your feet would get tangled in the ropes during a double-dutch match. What was intuition and what was fear? Does intuition give warning signs or does it only show you what feels right? Where does intuition come from?

Below is a recomposed conversation between me and Crystalline Page about this.

MARAM: So I want to start this conversation by telling you about the guided meditation I joined at a meditation center close to my building here in Dubai. It was called “The Soul Contract Meditation” in which we were meant to understand what the major lesson is that our soul is meant to learn in this lifetime. The teacher was a hypnotherapist and she was going to guide us to the higher realm, outside our dimension so we could meet our spirit guide and ask him/her/it all the important questions. I met someone in the meditation and got emotional as I asked him my nagging life questions. The answers that I got from him felt very intuitive and I realized I knew them all along. But to hear them from an “ascended sage” gave me so much comfort, like I was being watched and cared for. I had nothing to worry about. When I came out of the meditation however, I felt a little nauseous and the first thought I had was “I wish this was real.”

Here, I had a feeling what Crystalline Page was about to say in response so …

MARAM: And when I explained this to the teacher, she smiled and told me with her soothing healing voice “It’s as real and you allow it to be”. That only frustrated me more. I was calling out for something physical, tangible. I wanted an ascended sage to appear before me and speak to me so that I would have zero doubt that it’s not just my imagination. I wanted to feel cared for by an ascended being that I could turn to for advice whenever I needed it.

Crystalline Page:

This reminds me exactly of what one of my mentors told me after I finished my first healing session with him. I came to him seeking healing with the “blocks” I felt within me when it came to receiving more self-love and money in my life. The session led to me meeting some of my spirit guides and soul family. I did another session with him that allowed me to experience my first past life regression. These experiences were one of the most profound I had ever gone through and I remember saying to myself they felt so real. For both experiences, I went through a deep hypnosis. I came back crying very heavily with tears of joy and amazement. I knew that this was not pretend.

I remember my mentor who did these sessions with me was a shamanic practitioner. He discussed with me that these experiences occurred for me so that I could gain what was useful from them. He said, “ Are they real or not? That is up for you to decide. Were they helpful? Do you feel at peace? If the answer is yes, would it matter if it was made up by your brain to resolve issues you had or if it was a true, supernatural experience you just went through.” It made sense to me. After these occurrences, I continued to have powerful experiences on my own and with other clients of mine where I walked them through similar hypnosis through which they received messages from and met their spirit guides. And they were left in tears and in powerful states of empowerment and enlightenment.

So if you ask me if all of this stuff is real or are we crazy... Well, my answer would be is that there is so much to life than what we cannot physically see and not comprehend to its full extent yet. And thats pretty awesome I think! It’s an exciting journey that we are on!

MARAM: So tell me what is intuition to you?

Crystalline Page:

I was given an analogy by my spirit guides that our intuition is like a GPS system. Its our higher self. Us connecting to that. It knows why we came into this lifetime. It helps guide us to where we need to be and experience what we need to to evolve and grow as humans and spiritual beings.

On a physical level of understanding, I feel it in my gut ( or sacral chakra), my heart chakra, and in my third eye. I have learned that when you are fully aligned, all of these intuitive centers work hand-in-hand and that activates and opens your connection to your higher self or, how others would word it, ,as your light body. What I have come to learn about my intuition is that when I feel something is right or aligned with who I am, I feel a warm feeling in my gut and heart. I can kind of see with my third eye a bright light form in my intuitive centers also. If something is not aligned with my vibrations, who I am , or my life path, I feel a heaviness overcome me, and feel an ill-feeling in my gut. I then see with my third eye a dark cloud float over me kind of. I listen to these feelings within me and that is how I learned how to follow my intuition more. When I started doing that, life has been so much easier and free-flowing.

MARAM: For me it feels like an opening, like an open space of light in my body. I feel drawn into a stream of events that are inevitable. There can be struggles on the way but the initial feeling will be of something opening. I’m still learning about the other messages. What feels wrong for example. I recently booked for a trip that I had been excitedly planning for a few months. But when the time came to book the tickets, I felt very hesitant and kept putting it off. I did not want to feel this way and I started asking myself, is this an intuitive response to the decision? Does this mean I shouldn’t go? Is something bad going to happen? Then I did a prayer that we were taught to do as children in our religious upbringing when we are making a choice, and I waited. My first feeling after the prayer was of an excited opening so I booked the tickets right away. After that, this tightening and dread came over me again so I got so confused.

Have you ever experienced the negative consequences of not listening to your intuition?

Crystalline Page: Yes. the first thing I can think of is a simple concept like taking multiple choice exams back in school. I was always one of those smart, quiet kids who sit at the back of the classroom. I studied so hard for as long as I could remember. I was pressured to live up to high expectations being raised in an Asian family so I always had A’s and B’s which were the highest grades you can get in the United States.

I was not consciously aware of intuition until I was older and actually understood and learned about the concept until I was in college. I struggled with self esteem and self confidence my whole life so of course with that and wanting to always please my parents, I had major test anxiety. It got worse in high school. I still maintained the A’s and B’s but I know I did not excel as much as I could have if I had known about intuition and had better self confidence.

MARAM: Well how about experiencing negative consequences that made a large impact on your life?

Crystalline Page: Well, pursuing a career that I was not passionate about in college. Nursing. I knew I excelled in art. I loved doing art projects, coloring, drawing, making things, I was very creative as a young child and throughout primary school/ elementary school. But with my low self esteem, I could not go against my parents’ wishes as they wanted me to get into medicine. In my mind though I was pretty ambitious my whole life, not afraid to go above and beyond and achieve. I always had big dreams since I could remember, be a veterinarian because I loved animals, wanted to save the world, be an astronaut and go to space , have my own business as a bakery owner or run my own restaurant, but I was not really encouraged to be different but to conform. Stay within what was acceptable. Since my parents were encouraging medicine, I decided I wanted to be a doctor. A pediatrician because I love kids and again had big dreams to change the world. And then, again, I allowed the limiting thoughts of my parents get to me: “ it’s too expensive. You will waste too much time being in school. Why not just be a nurse. It takes 2 to 4 years instead.” So I settled. I hated every day of it. I dreaded going to school. But I still pushed forward. It was the worst 6 years of my life (took me longer because I had 2 years of pre-requisites and 4 years to finish my classes). During this time, I hit my rock bottom and had thoughts of committing suicide (probably due to the pressure of school, and I felt at this time in my life, I was realizing so much about myself and how the world worked, I felt hopeless. Nothing was working for me. I had no boyfriend. I was stuck at a dead-end job,etc..) but luckily someone was watching over me. I was almost done with the nursing program, last semester. I passed all of my classes but one. The easiest one, a review class and prep for the board exam to get my license. I had failed a class and had to retake it the year before and if I had failed one more class, I could not graduate. That happened. No matter how hard I tried, it came down to 3 tries to pass the final exam and I could not pass. By 2 percentage points. This was devastating. The thing I thought I was good at, school, I had failed. It had to be God or the Universe telling me no matter what, we can’t let you pass. You have another path in life. You have to go through this failure and all you did was for a reason. I am stuck with $70,000 of student loan debt because in the first place, I did not follow my dreams. I did not follow my intuition, knowing this was not the path I wanted to take for my life. And I suffered 6 long years to please other people. It taught me to never do that again and ever since then, I have been learning how to follow my intuition more and I could not be happier. I found my life purpose. I am aligned with the healer that I am and am helping people. I found my soulmate. I have travelled to places I have always dreamed of visiting and foreign lands I have never imagined existing. And I am doing something I love and building those businesses I have dreamed of pursuing to make a positive impact on the world.

MARAM: Wow that’s great! At this point I am taking my move to Dubai for example. That move came from an intuitive place. I know that for sure. Because it felt like a big opening from a place of peace and then I got drawn into a stream of events that led me this way. There were struggles of course. I had to face my parents’ intense objection and overcome that. But eventually I settled here. Now, it’s not feeling right anymore. Or at least, not right for my body and my authentic self to be here for long. And I’m confused all over again.

Crystalline Page:

It seemed moving to Dubai has served its purpose in your life. Can you think of what that is? You just told me about it.

MARAM: I am not sure. What is it? ….

Crystalline Page (grinning):

You just said it. You stood up to what society told you you couldn’t do. And you did it. You proved to yourself that you can do anything. And your soul has learned that now.

MARAM:

So what now? Haha!

Crystalline Page: Well I think you will be guided to the next step from here.

MARAM:

The key thing to intuition, I guess, is not to overthink it. I feel that I fall into that trap often because my mind, like an A student who is also a teacher’s pet, desperately wants to get it right! It’s the Hermione Granger in me! I am learning to follow the flow, rather than the concepts and questions...the what-ifs, do’s and don’ts, the constant race to understand the plan that life has for me. I think what we both agree on for now is what feels right. I am still observing what my intuition does when something is wrong for me. I believe I have the gist of it but it’s more confusing to me than what feels right. And I think that, to my small self, what feels wrong is very important because it speak to my endless fears and worst case scenarios.

Still a lot to learn! Maybe we should have a conversation like this again another time to check in about where we are in our intuitive path. Much love for sharing this with me Crystal!

Crystalline Page can help you with your own intuitive path. Check her out on Facebook and IG @crystallineawakenings_1111 and Youtube channel at Crystalline Awakenings. Or visit her website www.lifeflowcenter.com

I've been putting off this post. At first, I thought it was because I got busy with work but then I realized it was because writing it would be too emotional for me. No matter how brave you think you are with your emotions, there is still room for shyness, isn’t there? Also, writing this post would be proof that my Bali trip really has come to an end, that I’m really back to my ordinary work-a-day life, with all of its struggles; loneliness, financial concerns, a job in which - it has recently come to my attention - Arab misogyny is still alive and kicking, something I really could live without, at this point, I assure you. So let me tell you about Aminah. Aminah cared for me when I was a child. She was in my chronology as far back as I can remember, in all of those vague flashes of childhood where the sun somehow is always too bright and the shadows too dark. Aminah was as much a part of our family as my arm was a part of my body. I remember an ice cream cone cake from Baskin Robbins, bright with play-dough colored icing. I remember her frying things on the stove. Her jokes in the car when she would twist around from the passenger seat and slather her humor thickly to make me smile. I also remember her scoldings. She asked me once, in my visit to her home in Java, “Was I ever harsh with you?” I remembered a time when she tapped me on the head with the back of the hairbrush to rebuke me for something I had said. “No.” I told her, kindly. AS a child, I loved her so much that she got the best "thing" I could think of. When I was five, I named everyone I loved after a thing. My parents were Seven Up and Pepsi. My grandmother was a pretzel - stoic and dry. My grandmother’s adopted daughter was orange juice because she was bright and sunny. Aminah was lotion. Soft, gentle, creamy.

This was me with my cousin's nanny at someone's party...Aminah kept this picture of me and showed it to me when I visited her in Java.

And then there was Ahmed. He was her husband and our driver. His “thing” was donut because he always took my brother and I out for donuts in those long melancholy Riyadh afternoons. He had a benign fatherly presence that went on forever. He was like the half-moon, smiling and watchful. A funny man, a lovely man. I don’t remember him speaking much but without my knowing it, he was encoding my childhood with love. I remember running to him in the yard and showing him my new dinosaur lunchbox that I was so happy about and that already was reeking with peanut butter. The interest which he showed it with his kind eyes! Wasn’t it nice to have things and show them to eyes like that? We sped through the years together in one fine mesh as one family unit. They were indisputable facts in our lives, in gleeful summers and bone dry winters.

As I had my first lunch with them in Java, I told Aminah that, until today, every time I got out of the shower, I dried my face before I dried the rest of my body because she taught me to do that. She shook her head in emotion and told me to eat some more. Aminah and Ahmed left us when I was ten. We were in the US that summer and, one day, while I was busy daydreaming about how perfect fifth grade was going to be - it wasn’t - my mother called me to tell me that they had gone to Indonesia and were not coming back. I wept because I learned, that day, that life was not as unshakable as I thought it was. I felt betrayed. Who would fill the gap now in our lives? No one did. Not quite.

This was their daughter Nuha. She was born when I was seven. I was very jealous of her because she got Aminah's attention almost full-time. Nuha is now married and it was wonderful getting to know the woman she has become. Also, her younger sister, who was born after they left us. She was named, Wafaa, after my mother.

Goodbyes have always been a ritual with me and there have been many people in my life who did not understand my firm insistence on a proper ceremonial goodbye. I wonder now, in retrospect, if it’s because Aminah and Ahmed never said goodbye when they left. I arrived in Malang, Java, at 1:00pm. after a horrendous trip on a jet plane. They came to pick me up at the airport. I was a little squirt with bushy bangs and glasses when they last saw me. I greeted them now in yoga pants, hair just as bushy because of the humidity, and no glasses. A merry-go-around of hugs. Tears. Recognition of faces that had faded like papers in your time capsule. Ahmed held me tight and swung me from side to side letting out a shaky giggly squeal. I had not seen anyone this happy to see me in such a long time. They apologized for how humble their home was. It broke my heart that they felt the need to. They apologized for the simple food but simple food was what I was in Indonesia for. They apologized for leaving without saying goodbye. And because my heart was breaking already, it missed the opportunity to say “all is forgiven”. So I smiled and remained silent. They took me to the mountains. “Trek”, they called it with that lovely clipped accent, like someone had hit the breaks too soon on the word. We trekked up Mount Batur to peer down the crater into the mouth of a wide volcano. It was only hours after we had climbed down that I realized that looking into a volcano had been on my bucket list for years.

We visited, Ahmed’s sick mother. She had had a stroke a few weeks ago and was taken to the hospital. The poor woman lay heavy in her pain on the bed, a big body that was fighting a battle with itself. Futile? I hoped not. I put my hand on her, with the intention of practicing my reiki, and perhaps sending to her whatever relief my healing could bring. I felt it there, her energy field, tendrils tangled and waging a war inside. It was vibrant and angry, underneath my touch, a swarm of electric hounds snapping their jaws and gnashing. I prayed for her and channeled love through those small patches of skin that my hand could cover. Aminah, upon my gradual observation, had changed. She was fifty now and her voice was not anymore that loud boisterous train but rather, a wispy crackling leaf. Ahmed gently explained to me that I needed to speak to her face and not from behind her because she had a problem with her hearing. Her giggle, however, remained as self-deprecating and girly as ever. “Tidahak binapsik!” Those words were still ringing in my ears. When I was about seven, Aminah caught me grinning in the car as I was looking outside the window on our way to school. She turned to me from the passenger seat and laughed. “Tidhak binapsik!” …laughing with yourself. I remember feeling embarrassed to be caught with one foot in my own inner world, exposed and a little shamed. She never meant to shame me, of course, but Aminah had the habit of finding funny things everywhere. The year The Lion King came out, we came up with a family joke. My older sister, Maha, who was often entertaining to me as child, looked at the lunch tray that Aminah had prepared for us one afternoon and she found the tahini sauce missing. For some reason she called Aminah, singing the words “Goolol Aminah, tijeeb altahina!” to the tune of the Hakuna Matata chant. To this day, I don’t understand why we found that so funny. Maybe it was because Aminah was so wonderfully chant-able. She took care of me, during my visit. She made meatball soup for me, which, apparently, was a delicacy. If you’re wondering whether or not it was a delicacy let me tell you that, chewing those meatballs felt like I was chewing a nose. She made me tea, gorgeous Javanese coffee, and her infamous - and quite traditional- indomei soup which you needed to slurp slurp slurp to get the full benefit of it! I realized how much I had missed her when she produced that indomei soup with a cooked egg floating on the surface.

Ahmed took me riding on his motorcycle through the rice fields. Splendid rhapsodies of green about to swallow us up if we didn’t hurry up and down the pathways and between houses washed in toy box blue. It was a sunny day and the patches of rice were just sighing and begging to be seen and admired. He got off the bike to teach me how to ride. Albeit my first lesson was a disaster, I found it very poignant that he was teaching me to drive something after all this time. Having almost driven myself into a ditch, Ahmed drove us back to the house where we found Aminah, waiting in the courtyard, worried about my safety! Her own daughter, who was younger than I, was married but, to her, I was still five years old.

Throughout those couple of days, Ahmed kept looking at me with incredible fondness, like he couldn’t believe there are people in the world you could be so fond of or that fondness could be so big and wide. And I found all the crates and barrels of love in my heart being pried open; all the people I’d ever loved, all the people I had lost, everything there was to love presented itself to me just in the face of the man who took to me school everyday. I never wanted to leave. On the day of my departure, I was soggy with tears. I want to stay. I want to stay. I want to stay. Please let me stay. I told him about the dream I had after seeing the guru. Isi kil. “Isi kil has no meaning in the Indonesian language." He said, "But sikil means foot. Maybe the guru was telling you to stay in Bali.”

I’m not sure what dialect he was speaking of, or maybe my own spelling of the word is incorrect. But it meant something to me for him to say that. There was almost a question in there, a request. Will you stay with us? “Or maybe,” He continued, “The guru was trying to protect you. There is a lot of black magic in Bali.” Cat had said the same thing. “With all the black magic flying around, you can feel the energies.” I was hoping for an interpretation of the dream that was as clear as a billboard. My relentless need for irrevocable sensory proofs deafened everything else. The believer in me and the skeptic would argue over this dream for a time to come. Skeptic: The dream was just nonsense, inspired by your strong desire to find something extraordinary. It’s your mind playing tricks. It has the habit of doing that. You’ve been seeing green things for almost two weeks, and thinking about magic so it’s most natural that the brain would produce whatever received the most emphasis. Believer: The dream has a deep interpretation that you have not found yet because that feeling of being “possessed” so that a “download” can be dropped into your consciousness is undeniable. You know the feeling well because it was the same one that woke you a year ago, not into your waking life, but into a floating consciousness that was most certainly real - it wasn’t a dream - and you flew through a forest and up the tree of life. I had to leave Ahmed and Aminah. I cried as I gave them the hug I wanted to give them back in fifth grade. The promise of “again” stretches between us until now from the yarn of tomorrow’s hope. It was back to Denpasar for a few hours. I wanted one more ride, one more romp, one more discovery. The sadness of leaving gripped firmly with talons I could not shake off or appease. It was the sadness of cutting a path short to go back to work. I was leaving Eden to go back to Earth. I was climbing down from my highest self yet. I could feel it. So I called Dewa. I wanted a couple of hours where I could pretend I was not leaving on the 12:00am. flight. He asked for his heaviest price so far because he had to drive from Ubud to Denpasar just to take me around on this make-believe adventure. My heart dropped a few stories down when he said 500,000 Rupiahs. I realized, without a shadow of doubt, that I was holding on to my friendship with Dewa, as the last raft before I had to leave. I cared more about sharing another silence with him than I did about whatever we would end up doing before I went to the airport. He picked me up and we drove to Seminyak just as the nightlife began to come alive for the tourists. He took me to the grilled corn stand, where they brushed the corn with a sweet and spicy glaze before letting it simmer, burn and sulk in the fire. After that, it was to the downtown where a carnival of restaurants and warungs competed for attention among boutiques of everything you ever wanted to buy. I had ice cream. Then we walked back to the car because that was all the time we had. That was it. Just a little game of pretend.

I reached into my purse when we arrived at the airport to pay Dewa and I offered him the money. He hugged me very sincerely. Then he took his pay. I believe, by then, he had understood why I had wanted him to come tonight.

Our shadows on the beach at Seminyak...

Bali is a truly blessed island. Most people who come here don’t want to leave because of the abundance and the spices and the sincere friendliness of the Balinese. Even as I travel through this journey, I struggle to let go. Let go. Let go. Let go. But my heart hurts! Let it hurt! But I love them. Then love them. I miss them. Then miss them. I don’t want to leave this Island. You need to. There’s more to learn still. What if I just buried myself underneath a Frangipani tree, there in the earth where the monkeys play? Would consciousness forget about me and leave me be here in this paradise on Earth? I’m going to miss them all. Wayan and Wayan, Chico the dog, Damien, Miriam. Well I’m not going to miss Miriam. We already planned a trip to Ireland soon to dance with witches! But I’m also going to miss the Banyan trees, the Frangipani filling in the gaps between things when Consciousness forgot to put something there, the unquenchable infinite rice fields, the lurid and shameless tropical flowers, that smell that I still could not quite capture; Coconut? Jackfruit? Frangipani or a mix of all? Most of all, I am going to miss the opportunity for high vibrational living, such as I’ve never experienced before. Ubud is designed for people who wish to heal, or people who simply wish to be. If you wish to soak yourself in the ultimate goodness of the Earth, come to Ubud. If you wish to live a slower more dance-like life, come to Ubud. If you wish to throw away your possessions, all expectations, all needless pressure and reconnect with soul, with nature, with love, with humans, come to Bali. It’s all here, waiting. I don’t know what my path holds for me. But for now, the path was pulling me away. I could feel it in my heart and that’s what hurts the most. The knowing of the heart. As I slipped back into my life in Dubai, the calling continued. And as time wore me down, the calling began to fade. I can still hear it, ringing softly in the minute tunnels of my ear. I hear it when I type at work. I hear it when my back aches from the chair. I hear it in my sleep in those quiet hours where the traffic washes by in waves at night. I yearn for it. And I wonder how the Pevensie children felt when they accidentally tumbled out of Narnia, after they had grown to be kings and queens there, into ordinary 1930’s London. How do you accept life like it is after tumbling into discovery and joy for a while, every single day? How do you stay in the cubicle where you’re living when you’ve been on the golden path? I ask myself this question, everyday and sometimes I can feel the imprint of it behind the mind that plans and makes breakfast and runs the morning show. How? Am I supposed to be here? If not, how do I get back on the path? Or am I on it but it’s tricking me, testing me? Isi kil remains a mystery. When I came back to Dubai, I looked up the meaning in Sanskrit. The words were mute as rock in Sanskrit. I looked them up in Bahasa Indonesian again in the hopes that something was missed. Maybe Latin. Maybe some strange language that I’ve never heard of… I googled the words one day, as meaningless and raw as they were. A hashtag appeared. #isikil. I looked up the tweet that carried it. It was a picture of the street lights in Istanbul. So I looked up the word isikil in Turkish using google translate. The meaning, on the right hand box was this: light. I don’t know if google translate can be considered an accurate interpreter of dreams but I am in search of light. Some days I find it, I feel it. Some days I don’t and my frustrations, boredom, hurt and self-deprecation get the best of me. I hold out the flashlight and I don’t see a thing, only to realize that I am covering it with the other hand. Bali waits for me, still. It beckons. Maybe I will go back here to live. Maybe even soon. My trip was cut short because there is such a thing as annual leave and there is a computer out there that calculates it. I couldn’t just quit my job after five months of accepting it. So I had to go back. But the path is unfinished and waits to be walked to the end. I like to think of my own pilgrimage as keeping the tradition alive, the search for truth and love continues. While my great grandfather brought the pilgrims from Indonesia to Makkah, I traveled from Dubai (very close to Makkah) to Indonesiaas a pilgrim. Lucky for me I did not have to suffer for months on a ship.

Damien once said to me that you could get addicted to the search. I asked myself if it is the ego that drives us on our search, to keep us away from contentment and acceptance of what is. Or is it our unquenchable and playful curiosity? What if, as spirits, this is how we play?

Thanksgiving became special to me ever since my film Professor at Boston University invited me for the dinner at his home. It was everything I pictured a traditional American thanksgiving should be because he and his wife were fantastic cooks and superb hosts. The table was set the same way you would see it in an American film and Charles played bluegrass music in the background to set a mood that complimented the meal. With all of my five senses charmed and satiated, this evening became a hallmark in my holiday memory bank. Fast forward a few years later, in Dubai, when I was hoping to be invited somewhere for thanksgiving dinner. I heard from no one I knew. That was until I was invited by Athena Matheou, the Chef at a restaurant in Gallerie Lafayette, Dubai Mall, called Be Supernatural, to experience her vegan rendition of the traditional thanksgiving dinner. Be Supernatural provides highly conscious dining experiences that are - as they put it - freedom from meat, dairy, gluten, sugar and synthetic Chemicals. The products of this restaurant, from the menu to the take away containers are all made of biodegradable materials and almost nothing they make goes to waste, due to the composting techniques that they employ. My earth-loving antenna went up when I heard about this restaurant, not only because I had tried to start a food business myself that was as conscious but also because I was supremely grateful that such places exist! Now a raw vegan thanksgiving dinner was not a charming dinner with Charles and his wife in a cozy American home. But it was modern. Fresh. Daring. My friend and I arrived late. This gave us the opportunity to observe the cheerful faces chatting through the high spirits that good food often creates. Everyone seemed to be in a proper thanksgiving mood. It bode well. I sat down for the meal and was immediately offered a forest-like dish of greens laying, wet and glazed. The dressing felt on my tongue like a crystalline wall of sugar. There were plump flowers petals for the savoring. Beside the salad was a crisp tart topped with hazelnut cream, which had a thick mousse-like texture and a flavoring so light, I mistook it for cashew. The entire appetizer carried a balance of muddy, salty, earthy textures like the underside of a mushroom. It was sublime.

Next came a medley of quinoa, pumpkin and nuts dressed in the slightly burnt taste of something that was sugary and deeply mulling in its own spices. It reminded me of all the times I brewed cloves and cinnamon to to let the aroma to waft in my apartment in winter. The quinoa and the nuts, I suppose, were the main source of protein in the meal. It thought it was a good approach toward keeping the balance in a meat-free thanksgiving dinner. Beans would have been too commonplace. With this dish, Athena transcended tradition. She added flare with pomegranate jewels hidden in the quinoa and luscious figs on top.

For a last chance to impress us with her resourceful culinary skill, she made a raw pumpkin pie for dessert. The dish was made for lovers of coconuts and dates. With the coconut obvious in the crust - you’d have to be a lover of coconuts to appreciate it - and date sauce surrounding the pie. It was the filling that, again, impressed me with its incredibly velvety texture, which, in all my attempts at raw cooking, I had failed to produce in the kitchen. Athena used citrus notes to keep the dessert from becoming overwhelming.

We spoke to Athena after dinner as she sat with us, covered in smatterings of the lovely food she had been preparing in the kitchen and a whole lot of pride in what she does. She told us about her views in regards to veganism and why this meal was important to her. To put it simply, it was one less turkey under the mercy of a guillotine - in a manner of speaking. I recalled something one of my professors in design school used to say: limitation breeds creativity. She used to challenge us to create visually interesting compositions using only a few visual elements. For example, she would allow to use only a small white square space, three black lines, a red circle and nothing else. The results were astonishing with everyone in the class finding a way to make those meagre elements exciting to look at. I think this is what Athena was a able to accomplish with her thanksgiving dinner. While the breadth of ingredients she was able to use for a vegan meal were still various enough, she was still limited in not using the ingredients that people have for so long believed to be staples of the dining table such meat, eggs, butter, etc. While I am not vegan myself - currently inclined toward vegetarianism - it was an eye-opener to experience someone’s view of the world through food, at a heartwarming dinner table.

Tonight’s moon would be the last full moon of the month. There were ceremonies across town in the temples, lifting voices up into the humid air like swarms of reverent mosquitos. Tonight was the perfect opportunity to see the guru. A ride on a motorbike at sunset got me there, through fields of rice and a stain-painted sky. The Ashram was farther than the instructions given to me. Much farther. It was tucked away in a curve in the road at the top of a hill somewhere at the borders of where Ubud began to forget itself. How in the hell would I have gotten here in the darkness? In the rain? I got off the bike and thanked the Balinese guy who drove me here. Then I was left to be swallowed, spellbound, into the Ashram. You arrive at the doorway of a mythical place and willingly surrender yourself just as the sun goes down. You’ve gotten this far. You have no idea how long this place will keep you. You have no idea how you’re going to get back. I stepped through that doorway willingly. There was no one around. Only the garden, the sly trap. A beautiful maiden of a garden, curling, descending, and pulling me down with it. Tiers and layered grounds, separated by endless steps. Past the point of no return, rang the melodramatic org in my head.

I arrived at a stone mandala in the center, the same way Ofelia arrived at the bottom of the labyrinth. A rambling place to be left to its own devices, to play and toy and perhaps never to let go of that stranger who arrives until some change, benevolent or malevolent, has occurred. There was no one to talk to. It was getting dark. I whirled around full circle, searching. Until someone crept up on me. He had a strangely omniscient presence, like he knew I was coming, like he had plans for me… “Yes?” he said with a voice so deep, so oddly deep, like I’ve never heard from a Balinese man. It made my bones tremble softly. He was taller than me, lean and finely chiseled. His clever eyebrows, hung above his eyes to keep the mystery there shaded. He exuded restraint, discipline, and maybe the ancestral magnetism of those who train their third eye. He was ancient but very young. Somewhere between thirty five and forty. His dark hair was bound up in an immaculate ninja-bun. He wore a white t-shirt and a sarong. He must have meant to blend with moths. “Can I help you?” he asked and every word was a meditation. “Yes. I’m looking for Ketut Arsana?” “He’s not here.” I tried not to be too crestfallen. That ride through the sunset must have meant something. “I was told he had an ashram meditation at 6:00.” I said, hopefully. It was almost 6:00. “Yes. He does. At 7:30.” “Oh.” Oh. Oh shoot. What was I going to do in an ashram all alone until then, out in the open. “You can wait,” he answered my thought, “You can sit in the temple and meditate.” He led me up another towering set of steps to the outdoor courtyard - or the cave, as he called it - and showed me where to sit. He brought me a mat and lingered around me as I tried to get comfortable on the hard pebbles of the mandala pattern. Around me were trees, growing in the middle of the cave, above me was a sky mellowing into deep periwinkle. In front of me was the guru’s seat and, behind it, the stone figure of the lingam (penis), merging with the yoni (vagina). This was my first ashram meditation. This man, who seemed to me like an apprentice - and I will call him this from there on - went around preparing the space for tonight’s full moon prayer, to which I was invited. Incense and a bonfire, he lit. Strings of Jasmine and chrysanthemums he carried, flattering the stone Hindu figures scattered about the courtyard. And, of course, frangipani flowers were never absent in Balinese ceremonies.

An hour and a half to go. I don’t know why, but I felt I was being watched. How long could she meditate? How long could she wait? I took on the invisible challenge, folding myself into a pretzel and closing my eyes. It was easy to slip into the sea of consciousness here but not easy to stop my legs from going numb after an hour and a half or the mosquitos from feasting on me. The apprentice eventually sat next to me and began to chant, tapping cymbals together for punctuation. I don’t know for how long he kept up those mantras but I rocked to them, losing myself to the monotony that began slowly to creak in his voice. It helped to sustain me. Night fell and the impatience that I managed to assuage for the past hour was beginning to raise complaint. I unfolded myself. Both legs were gone. The guru was not here yet. People began to arrive for the prayer, gathering in scattered little white clouds. But I swallowed it, that impatience. Over and over. How would I survive in an ashram if I couldn’t breezily wait for the guru for an hour and a half? Then, the apprentice came to me. “You want to see the guru?” he asked. I had passed the test. “Yes!” I got up gratefully. He led me through twisted gardens to another set of steps that took us into a small veranda covered with palm shavings. The guru was seated there, surrounded by his white-clad family and village friends. The apprentice led me in quietly as the guru spoke to them in Bahasa Indonesian. The language, of course, was not foreign to me. I grew up hearing it. But what was strange was that gurus, in my mind, were always Indian. Ketut Arasana laughed with the appetite of a child and spoke with the humility of a sage who knew he knew nothing and, thus, knew everything. His face bore no seriousness because, at his age, the world had stopped being a serious place a long time ago. He reeled people in, only to spear them with a joke, or a ruffle of the head. My body giggled and gurgled in his presence. I was fascinated. Adults and children took turns sitting in front of him on their knees. He put his hand on their head with the benevolent face of someone who could see past skin and past the illusion of being human. One of the men who sat in front of him, began to writhe and contort as soon as Ketut put his hand on top of his head. He unleashed a series of startling barks and growls. Something was moving within him. Was it angry? Was it hungry? Was it going to charge? My heart rate spiked watching this. I turned to the apprentice in alarm. “What’s happening?” I asked. The guru’s gaze flitted in my direction, seeing my alarm. He laughed. I heard two words in his speech: Kundalini and shakti. Then it was my turn. I was afraid that he would awaken something within me, the sleeping snake, or pains I had long mourned and buried. I sat in front of him, sending the intention to awaken anything that would me along my path as a healer. I closed my eyes and emptied the fish swimming and darting in the pond of my mind. Emptiness. I surrender. He put his hand on my head. I felt something rise, a pull, so gentle. It was pleasant. My breathing thickened for a few seconds. Then everything melted back into normalcy. He lifted his hand and I felt him make a gesture on top of my head. A symbol perhaps? I opened my eyes. “Do you have anything you want to ask me?” he asked. “Yes.” I felt shy and a little presumptuous. I was in the hands of a healer, asking him if I could be a healer. “I have a feeling, that I would like to be a healer,” I said to him, “I don’t know how to prepare myself for that.” He looked at me kindly. “Do you believe in God?” “Yes.” “Then pray to him. He will guide you.” Then he continued to chit chat with me. Where I was from. What I was doing here. What my profession was. But inside, my mind was going whaaaat? That’s it? I’ve been praying to God all my life. I was expecting more specific advise. I mean, he was the guru. “How did a woman from Saudi Arabia find me?” he asked. “I met you on the street the other day, you don’t remember?” “No! I meet a lot of people.” He told me I must come and stay at the ashram, so we could talk some more. “But you must remember me next time!” I teased. Cheek applied itself very nicely to his man. He laughed. I tried to hide my disappointment in his advice as I followed his invitation to join the prayer. Also, I knew I would not be able to stay at the ashram right away - perhaps one day soon. But would he forget me again? The prayer ran for three hours. In that courtyard occurred the most pleasant and joyful prayer I had ever experienced. I call it a prayer but it was really a celebration. The chanting rose to crescendos then calmed into lazy waves, then sparked, then flitted, then flew. The Parvati dance was moonlight. The joy all around was a garment of silk that had sleeves for all of us. With Ketut standing at the front of the crowd, orchestrating silently, not the words or the movements but the energy field of that courtyard, his communion seemed far removed fromours because he had aprivate understanding with the Universe. It was a sheer expression of devotion. But I resisted it. I fought and gnashed my teeth at it. I was tired. Three hours of prayer unprecedented for my exhausted body. Also, the word heresy trampled my mind space again. To join Hindus in song and dance! To pray in the name of their gods. This was downright heresy! To many in my part of the world, in 2016, it’s still heresy! The resistance mounted into incredulousness. What are you doing, Maram? I’m praying with Hindus.Heresy! Heresy! Heresy! As proclaimed many an angry bishop - or sheikh. Until one giggly Balinese woman was kind enough to burst this thorny bubble. We were rotating around the lingam and yoni figure in the courtyard, a ritual. “When guru put his hand on your head, this is like rokiya.” she said, then she giggled some more, “and this one like kaaba.” She pointed at the lingam-yoni figure. Now that was just ridiculous. I burst out laughing. And from then on I took off the frowning bishop and ran naked into devotion. On our way to Uluwatu, Dewa pointed out a row of worship on the road. There was a church, a hindu temple, a buddhist temple, and a mosque all side by side, hand in hand. I stopped to take a picture of it on the way. I had to carry this splitting image of oneness with me. At the ashram, I was thankful to surrender to that oneness and join the foreign prayer to the one and the same Source, underneath a pulsating full moon. I did not know most of the mantras but there was only one that I could repeat by heart. You guessed it.Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyam. Bhargo devasaya dheemahi dhiyo yo naha prachodayat…(link below to listen on itunes)

That night, after the ashram meditation and prayer, the guru watched over me. I could see his face in my dreams all night, sharp and clear. I knew he was sizing me up. He led to me to healers across time and space, through jungles, forests, gardens, and convoluted pathways. I was waking up from a particularly vivid dream and, as a stepping stone between sleeping and awaking, I slipped into a calling, brightly white. An awesome force cracked my skull open and took possession of my body. Listen, was what it intuited to me. Something fell through, like a kick in the gut, a “download” as they call it these days. ISI KIL. The download woke me up in urgency, sat me up, searched for my phone and typed the words. ISI KIL. Then I dropped back into sleep. It was not until I woke up in the morning that I realized that Ketut might have dropped me a hint during the night. But what the hell did isi kil mean?

Note: If you like to stay updated about this blog please sign up here.

The water at White Beach rose and fell in its salty shifting moods. The sun had risen to its highest peak, bringing out the deepest cerulean pigmentation of the sea and it painted us both in blue. Our briny skins were being burnished in the world’s laziest slow-cooking cuisine. Damien and I had been on the motorbike for the first half of the day looking for beaches and waterfalls. He was taking me around because I needed to say goodbye to Bali. In a couple of days, I would be flying to Malang, Java, to visit my childhood nanny, the woman who helped to bring me up until the age of ten. “Here’s a thought,” I said to Damien as a wave slapped my head, “If we all came from God, if we’re all pieces of one consciousness, then, in a way, we were everyone who ever existed.” “We are everyone who ever existed,” he tweaked. He seemed so haunting and real, then, like that moment in a film when a character is in a close-up and becomes a surreal echo of themselves.

I was still thinking about past lives, more specifically, the past life that Novi had brought out of its wriggling hiding place. “And the past lives that we remember,” I continued, “are the ones that were meant to teach us on our path.” “Or the ones we need to let go,” he added. In his case it was an American naval officer in the horrors of WWII. A part of me secretly wanted to negate my own philosophy because I rather liked the idea of owning a past life all to myself…there it was again: Duality. Separation. Ego. It creeps into us even in those spacious recesses of our minds where we think we are close to enlightenment. I recalled all those secret moments in my childhood psyche when I felt I remembered something, far off, from another time, and it buried me with sadness because that feeling was fleeting and so hard to touch or explain or understand. A creaking lonely seaside, dark forbidding abandonment, stark rocks moored on the shore. A little glass dome, so enchanting, and untouched, in heaven’s memory of winter. A child pampered and loved, like the ghosts of the Romanovs in their glittering ivory palace. A music box. All of these I remembered. But it was the memory, not of the chronological mind but of…well, something else I could not capture with any of the tools given to me. That was what I could never explain. Until now. Possibly. We discussed the idea of my having been Victorian English in a past life, because, as a child - and very much as a teen - I had an unexplainable affinity for London and Victorian England. This led me to comment on the smatterings of Cockney in Damien’s accent. “I speak proper English!” he protested, “This is how English is supposed to be spoken!” “I don’t think Professor Higgins would agree with you!” “Well, fuck Professor Higgins!” he said, grinning. And that concluded our conversation about past lives. But what remained with me was the soft persuasion of the events so far - that I have past lives - woven into a braid with skepticism and the unrecycleable remnants of old dogmas. Despite this dancing war in my mind, I was determined to follow the clues in this pilgrimage-turned-into-a-treasure-hunt. It was certainly more fun than preparing the morning show program. Dewa came to pick me up. I have to comment here how important Dewa was to the pilgrimage. He was one of those people you would be lucky to be led to. A clean and tidy man, tidy even in the way he chose his words and spoke his sentences, with perfect little pauses, mmm’s, aaah’s and enunciations. By clean, I mean that his physical form had no irregularities, just a nicely molded Balinese man with the spirit of a well-mannered frangipani blossom. A bit hefty on the purse but absolutely crucial. Not only did he know where everything was and not only did he arrange for my meetings and appointments, but he also provided a quiet sort of companionship that grew on me. Dewa, even though he remained silent for most of my excursions with him, managed to let his silence speak for him in friendship.

Occasionally he did pepper the silence. As he was driving me to Uluwatu, he turned to me. “Maram,” he said, in that intense vocal punch, like he was punctuating the air with my name. I jumped internally whenever he did that. It reminded me of the way my grandmother said my name, quietly and deeply, just before she was about to give me a scolding. But I soon learned that this was Dewa’s way of preparing to tell me something important. In this case, it was a question. “Can I ask you something, maybe it’s personal?” “Of course!” “If you are Muslim, why do you want to pray in a Hindu temple?” It sounded like the question was troubling him so much he just had to relieve the confusion that was roiling in his forehead. “Because I believe everyone is trying to find God in their own way.” I replied, “And I’d like to join everyone on their path. Because we are all one.” He smiled. Did he like that answer? I was relieved! I still felt like I had escaped a scolding! Uluwatu was two hours away from Ubud. Wrapped in a sarong I had borrowed from wife-Wayan, I was prepared to register my soul, as Novi put it. Mostly, I was curious about the importance of this temple. Why had Novi sent me there and nowhere else?

We arrived at the parking lot, the same way you would arrive at a theme park. There were swarms of tourists from all over the world. I had romantically imagined a quiet secluded place where I would enter in holiness like Fushigi Yuugi’s Priestess of Suzaku but, here, there were too many footsteps, odd shrieks and guffaws, and cameras clicking. Still, as we made our way through the courtyards and pathways, I was slipping into reverence the way you would slowly slip into a cool lake. Uluwatu led Dewa and I up a long flight of steps. Are you worthy of this, the stairs seemed to ask. Well, I am gradually upping the incline on my treadmill runs so, yes, I answered.

We were told to wait for the priest to come if I wanted to pray in the temple. Dewa suggested I take a tour around the temple walls by the cliffside until he arrived. The atmosphere here was a pearl encased underneath the fleshy clouds in the sky. It was the type that summoned mermaids, pheonix gods and - in reality - shipwrecked strangers. The temple was feminine in the way that it rambled into the jungles and the way the jungles rambled around it, masculine in the lines and the towering height. The sea below the cliff called out everything holy and everything lustful.

Note: A local family that decided I was cool enough to take a picture with!

I was still curious to know what Uluwatu held for me. What was it I was supposed to feel here? Or achieve? There went my outcome-hungry mind. Expectations! Expectations! Expectations! I tried to meditate inside the forest with the monkeys, hoping that something magical would happen but only one thing did: I got stung by an army of mosquitos. I got up in frustration with my ceaseless romanticism and decided to huff my way back uphill. At last Dewa came to fetch me. The priest was ready. He led me to a small iron-wrought gate that secluded the shrine from the tourists. As soon as I walked through, I felt the tourist falling away, fading. I had only imagined them. There was a long courtyard to cross, white stones, scrubbed and aged. It began as I was walking, the strange recognition.

This is the courtyard that led to the shrine. I did not take pictures of the shrine because it felt too sacred.

The courtyard led us down a few small steps into an alcove that was encased by luxuriously carved walls on the tip of the cliff. The sun shone here brighter and whiter than the skin of a papaya, young and ripe, but older than anyone on the planet. Coconut trees surrounded us to remind us of the Earth. The cries and laughs of the tourists were a distant insolent babble. The recognition grew here until it had the effect of a reverie. I was walking into a dream within a dream, zipped up and packed away centuries ago, eons ago. I felt drawn instantly to the floor. I wanted to kneel there and touch it. It was not a choice or a fancy. I needed my knees on the stones and my palms brushing the roughness and goodness of it. My mind was seeing this place for the first time. But my body knew it. In those instances of recognition, you hover between intellect and deeper cognizance, just like I did when I was a child, possessed by those memories. I was possessed here with the feeling that I had been here once and it was glorious. There was unspeakable presence now. None of the monkey-mind business that wanted things to happen. All thought was washed away with the sea foam. Nothing needed to happen because I had arrived. I sat on my knees in that whiteness, before the alter that was dressed in palm shavings and frangipani. I put my forehead on the floor like I would in a mosque and thanked God for bringing me here and for this unexplainable and sheer feeling that had enrobed me like a thick gown. Then I watched Dewa performing his prayer with a flower offered to God between his palms. It was so sweet and endearing, I could not help copying him. The young priest - who I thought to be the caretaker of the alter, and in a way he was - blessed us with holy water. Then I sat for long in a meditation that was composed solely of light and the sound of waves coming, coming, coming.

By the time we were back in the car, I was thoroughly confused. The mind kicked in again and began, with the voices of many people I knew, to tell me everything about that that did not make sense. So I tried to describe it to myself. I will refer to my little Bali journal for the description I desperately wrote. I cannot recall ever being so at loss for words, trying to describe something. It was like a spell was keeping me even from coherence so that I would forget, the way dreams fade, the way my soul had to forget where it came from when it was born here. “Light. Palm trees. Frangipani. Fantasy. Kings. Priest advisor. The priest was by the sea. The one I saw in my vision. It was like my body knew this place? I really don’t know how to write about this because it was far from conscious…But maybe by repeating it, I can put my finger on it. White sunlight. Gentle. White sand. White rock. Majesty. Mighty…The might of the sea, the tower, the temple, the shrine encased on the tip of the cliff. The king. Entourage. Peace disturbed. Paradise taken. The game of politics with kings. The temple must remain hidden…I don’t know. All this felt familiar, in one stream of consciousness that came over me. Once I sat there on the sun-warmed white stone, it came back and for strong moments…complete presence…” This was what I could make of it and until now, I don’t know which side of me wins, the one that carries skepticism in a delicate silver tray or the other one, the one that just wants to fall into belief. But I do know that, in that window of time, when I was arriving at the shrine…there was a layer of existence just beyond reason and handfuls short from another reality. Very close to Wayan’s guesthouse, there was shop of women’s clothes. I had been drawn to that shop ever since I arrived at Ubud, frequently stopping to look at the window. I walked in a couple of times. I never bought anything. As the car rolled back to Ubud, that day, I remembered the shop. It was called Uluwatu.

Note: If you like to stay updated about this blog please sign up here.

My hand roved over the deck of cards splayed out in a layered bow on the table. This was real tarot. The wafer thin paper plies were sputtering out the sides of the cards and they were browned with use. With my eyes closed, I chose the cards that called to my hand with tendrils of heat I felt not on my skin but in the intelligence of my skin. Novi’s house was pleasant and lush for the intellect. It was neatly and carefully designed to display books, collected furniture and art. There was a wide space all around and up to the slanted ceiling for comfortable breath. We were in a little side room, like an alter, where she performed her readings. It was raining thick outside, splattering against the window behind Novi with big banana leaves of water. This meant that the world outside had shut me in, to remain under Novi’s perceptive gaze. I had shared nothing about myself with her, except my name, date of birth, and where I was from. “You have two protectors,” Novi began as she stared at the ten delectable cards that I had chosen. “Ganesh and Tara,” I did not know who Ganesh was but I had heard the name in many sanskrit mantras. I certainly had not heard of Tara. “Ganesh is the elephant.” she explained, “He symbolizes joy, happiness and a hungry appetite for experience. Ganesh is a rebel. He does not like rules or commitment. He is like a child. He only thinks of the exquisite joy of being alive. He wants to try everything and do everything.” I saw myself in all those aspects of Ganesh that I slowly and imperceptibly slipped into a quietude of pure receptiveness as she continued. “Tara is that one, the green one.” she said, pointing at the Hindu figure in the picture frame to her right. A cross between the green giant on those tin cans of beans and an anime version of a shrewd baby. Tara was a lady swathed in flowers and birds. “Tara is the essence of mother nature. You are so connected to the Earth,” she said this with the enthusiasm of someone sipping a particularly fine soup. For the first time in my life, I felt that the abundantly green part of me was being brought forth, finally, to the high alter of my being and told she was validated. My green part kneeled there, hurt, denied and parched. All the pulls and longings I felt in my heart, all the tears I shed, since childhood because I longed to be where it was green. I longed to know the names of flowers and trees, to grow them and grow with them. I felt the absence of all the pets I never had, all the horses I never whispered to, or the jungle cats I never looked in the eye. I thought of how jealous I always was of Mary’s secret garden and the long-lived anguish I felt for not having been born into L.M.Montgomery’s verdant books. I thought of my “pumpkin house”, which was a fantasy I used to have in my early teens about a small forest cottage, secluded and surrounded with witchery, pumpkins growing in the garden, and only my soulmate to share it with. And then my recent cravings carving deep unfulfilled pathways where I desired a simple life in which I have an herb garden and grow tomatoes and help the bees…somewhere far far from the desert… “Your Tara is angry,” Novi said, “She needs to be always connected to nature but where you grew up, you were isolated from the energy of the Earth and living creatures. And you need it so much.” I cried. Yes I did. And no one had ever seen this deep private pain of mine but Novi because, where I grew up, no one realized how much it mattered, how deeply the deprivation of pets was felt and how much sorrow it caused not to be able to wake up and see a rolling countryside outside my window every day, not just on vacations, but in my “everydays”. Nature that was mine, not a sample or a condescending offering for peace with my Tara. I wanted no more samples or peace talks. I wanted to finally rest in green. “Tara is beautiful and feminine. People might look at you and say ‘Oh she is independent! She is a warrior!’ but really you are a princess inside, so feminine.” Novi said, “Tara is peaceful and loving. She gives and nourishes like the Earth. But because she is angry she has suppressed these qualities in you and she has become like a strict mother to your Ganesh. And because of that, your Ganesh rebels even more, always running, not enjoying.” Oh how true, swirling as it was in lyrical Hindu poetry! I sighed deep from that well within that rings when it hears the truth.

She proceeded to tell me things that were accurate and specific to myself. I just sat in silence listening to her in the mood of one who had surrendered to an enchanting song. Novi knew everything. Most of her predictions matched Putu’s. His was the summarized and succinct version of my fortune. Novi’s was an elaborate and jaunty ramble into my psyche, my past, my future, my heart, and desires. She even told me it was important for me to dance, because dance was the way to celebrate and move my prana. Putu had seen a dancer in me. I too had always believed that if I had chosen a different path early on in life, or if the opportunities were presented to me, I would have been a dancer. She revealed the cards as she went along. There were three cards left now. She lifted one. I saw her look at it for a teetering moment on the cusp of something, then, her clever eyes met mine. “In a past life, you were a Balinese priest.” That reached my consciousness like the sudden glare of the sun rising over a wall. Then, the brush with nirvana that I felt with Putu returned to me, striking and outside of itself. Rays of astonishment spread through my limbs and my gut. I mouthed at her.

Prophet...

“Yes, in a past life you were a Balinese priest. This is why you were called to Bali. You synchronize so strongly with the energy here.” I still could not speak. And when I finally could, “Yesterday…”I began, “I had a healing session and I saw a vision of a Balinese prophet walking alone by the sea.” I described to her the vision and the communication I had experienced under Damien’s spell.

She smiled at me fondly. So fond she was of people’s discoveries about themselves, wasn’t she? I did not know if I believed in past lives. I’m not sure, even now, but I know this: I like the idea of past lives because it allows more room for playfulness and mistakes. It allows you to sit well in the knowledge that if you fuck up this life, you will get another chance. You will also know that you will have the opportunity to experience being different kinds of people in this wonderful three-ringed circus, this masala stage play with its deafening chilik-chilik sounds. But for the moment, I let my past life as a Balinese priest sit quietly on the shores in me that received information. “You were meant to be a healer,” she continued, “Your hands are magic hands because the prana there is very strong. Anyone can channel energy but you can channel it ten times stronger.” She searched my face and smiled. “You can be any kind of healer, Maram. Even with your writing you can be a healer. It can be energy healing, it can be writing, it can be just a smile. You were meant to heal hearts, especially of the people in your part of the world. Feminine energy is so oppressed there.” A mist of tears rose from my heart to my eyelids. This pilgrimage had been pointing in this direction since the start. I was looking for magic to heal me but it turns out I was meant to be the healer. Hearing it, as solid as a block of butter, from someone who not only knew all aspects of myself but created the loving space to explore my pathway with me, with the intent, the playfulness, and the heart to truly care. Novi was not just a fortune teller, practicing real tarot, but also a designer. With motherly affection, she had brought forth those aspects of me that questioned and raved and waited and sulked and hoped. She guided them with her mango juice to one big heart-slaking ball of karma that was so ready to roll merrily on its path to fruition. Novi was born and raised Muslim. Later in her life, she had converted to Buddhism. It was that well-roundedness in her that spoke to me, aside from the juice in her soul. “You must come to Bali every six months to renew your energy. Your Tara will thank you.” I’m sure she would, I thought. My Tara had been weeping and sobbing her thanks to me ever since I arrived here to witness the rhapsodies of the Earth. “Also, you must go to the temple of Uluwatu. That is were you must go to register your soul! So you will always be welcome here. It’s like getting a spiritual visa!” she joked. But I understood what she meant. I must go to say I’m here. I’m finally here. I heard the call. The session continued for some time. When she was done with the ten cards, Novi opened herself to questions. I asked her many things and she answered me using her knowledge of the cards, flooring me every time with her inscrutable accuracy. And also, her kind and loving wisdom. I asked her about my past relationship, the one that had broken my heart over and over. I noticed that, after my meeting with Putu, the weight of that separation lifted immensely and the air whooshed in the way it would into a deep hot hole underneath a boulder. Up to that point, I might have still been carrying some suitcases and purses of shame, regret, and guilt however. “Pick a card,” she said quickly, with the healthy exuberance of one who was eager to solve a math problem in time. I picked a card. She opened it. “Hmm! Yes! You were his teacher in a past life. You were meant to meet over and over and will continue to meet in your lifetimes to teach each other unconditional love.” Why did that feel so right? My relationship with this loved one had always felt karmically loaded. And when we last separated, I had this sudden and frightening conviction that this has happened before. Imagine the sharpest deja vu you ever had and multiply that by ten and then feel it in your whole body, let your soul soak in it and shake you to the core of remembering. So I let him go. My little pack of cards back at home were feeling a little peevish by now, a little presumptuous maybe. The fact was, I might have met many charlatans in Dubai. But I'm glad I could not find a tarot reader when the curiosity awoke on my birthday a few months ago. Because Novi is a real tarot reader.

I left the little room with an incredible calm I had not felt in so long. There were questions and seekings hovering around the ceiling of my mind like those flies and moths that you can’t seem to get to settle down, neither by net, nor the batting of your hands. Novi had dropped a soft blanket over everything so that it all landed in purring content. You know that feeling when you’ve found a big squishy beanbag and then you drop into it so that it molds itself around your butt and your back with delicious perfection? That was what I carried with me except that I felt it in my heart. I sent a text message to Dewa. “Do you know how to go to Uluwatu?”

Note: If you like to stay updated about this blog please sign up here.

Disclaimer: I used some images from google images because I did not take any pictures of Novi or her house, in respect for her privacy.

When I first arrived in Denpasar, I fell asleep in my bed - as well as anyone could sleep with the racket outside - and in my sleep, I saw the star of David. Throughout the week in Ubud, I kept seeing the star of David everywhere, in shops, in signs, and carved into Hindu temple walls. One star led me to the other until, one day, I saw it hanging on a thin cord from Damien’s neck. Ever heard of the elf warriors who ran away from Rivendell because life was too tidy and ethereal there? Well, there were elves who ran away from Rivendell and Damien was one of them. His ears might not to be too pointy because they had rounded out in our mattress-fluff world where pixie dust is only laundry detergent. So his ears are just like yours and mine. All right, all right, enough. Damien is from Britain but I don’t think he really belongs anywhere and probably shouldn’t. Currently, he was in Bali because his nose led him here after it had led him to Thailand. Over the course of ten years, Damien had accumulated enough knowledge in energy healing to make him a traveling shaman. Or at least, I liked to think of him that way. Tall and lean, the world has weathered him a bit, has worked through him, has molded him both in form and soul, so that he could merge with tree bark if he so chose or liquefy into crystalline water coves. Well his blue eyes surely could if the sun looked straight through them. He smelled like coconuts, not the pretend kind in oils and lotions, the real kind that the Earth took time to cook. Damien and I spoke about a healing session after the rebirthing with Dita and Janis. We agreed to meet when the time was right, when the stars were aligned, when we were both ripe for an energetic transaction. My conscious mind questioned my choice to experiment with Damien’s style of healing. I was here to observe the traditional Balinese holistic culture after all, wasn’t I? But the drive that brought me to Bali began to direct me in the gut and I listened. The time came after I had completed my reiki class. Damien picked me up with his motorbike and drove us to his place in a rural neighborhood not too far from the center of Ubud. After Cat’s attunement ritual, I was still rising through the fresh soil from which she had unearthed me. I was happy to receive. We chatted for a while on Damien’s daybed overlooking the garden where the squawking geckos lived. We talked about blockages, Kundalini awakenings, past lives and our childhoods. I shared with him what I suspected was the one thing that kept me from fully actualizing myself. I opened up to him and he received my fears very gently. And, like the exhale that follows the inhale, he shared bits of his own tender history. Then, we got to work. In his rented house, he had a room which, three weeks ago, he had turned into a healing sanctuary. There was a mattress on the floor and candles all around and absolutely nothing to disturb the peace.

The ancient Indian flutes relaxed me. Damien sat at my feet. He told me not to be startled if he made strange sounds. I was curious. He started by channeling energy through my feet. I gave into it. Nothing strange about this…safe… “Oooooeeeooowwweeewowow” came his shamanic sounds. Tribes. Jungle. War paint. Holy herbs. Mystics. Roots. Mud. Larvae. Beginning of time. Creation. He did the same at my head, changing the pitch of his voice. I was slowly drifting away. He constantly reminded me to manage my breathing. “Breathe like we did in the rebirthing.” It was a mixture of massage and reiki, except that Damien had techniques of his own and he used sound to inspire the space and energy for my mind to release itself into a different frequency; a sea of milk dusted with gold. I lost consciousness but was very much aware. Then, in the white all around…Prophet… What? My conscious mind flickered.Prophet… What does that mean? I saw a Balinese man walking down a cloudy beach alone…a Balinese prophet…he was a lonely man… My heart burst open just then, a flowering orgasm in my chest. I knew. What did I know? I just knew. Gratitude for this knowing weighed me down into the mattress. It came out of me, a fountain. I wept. Eons later, my consciousness made its sweet lazy way back to here, to now. The session was over. I could not move. I fell back onto the mattress every time I tried to get up. Damien helped me to walk but we decided it was best for me to just lie there until I could move again on my own. And it was well because I needed to bask in the weighty feeling that something in the cosmos had just opened up for me. I was overcome with the conviction that I was meant for something bigger. I did not know what it was yet. It was soundless, formless but felt in every crawling cell of me, heavy as a gigantic water balloon and pregnant with meaning. Night had settled in. I was aglow in a little forest of wavering candlelight. When I was able to, I sat up and folded myself into half-lotus and sent a prayer of thanks. There was not enough thanks in the world so my little whispered one would have to do. Damien made me supper. He chopped things up intuitively, with no prior idea what he was doing, and threw them together in a big frying pan…with coconut oil, of course. The final stew was sharp with Indonesian flavors; lime leaves, garlic, ginger. It was a meal lost in conversation. We talked about oneness - and a little bit of nonsense - and read each other’s minds spontaneously. I shared with him what happened during the session, the words, the knowing, the vision. I was a bit shy about it. It felt important but I did not know what to do with it. “Well! There you go!” he said with a grin. Sensing, probably, that I was still soft after the experience, he did not pursue it further and instead took upon himself the duty of admiring our bleeding full moon that night. Then he said, “And it happened on a full moon too!”

He took me home when it got late. I did not know then that the synchronicities were coming fast. The next day, I needed the space to write and lose myself into “normal things” like eating and shopping and moseying around. I had not planned to see anyone special. I was toying with the idea of seeing Novi, the Balinese psychic that Cat had recommended to me but I was not sure I felt like trekking anywhere and having anyone poking at my consciousness. I was still buzzing from my session with Damien and I did not feel open to novel experiences. Or more visions. So I decided to sit and enjoy my coconut water and the tail of the afternoon that was escaping me. I sent a question out to my very helpful Ubud community on Facebook. Ok. I needed to get back on track. Traditional Balinese healers. Could anyone give me some guidance? I got many suggestions in my feed and I relaxed into the feeling of getting back on track. Then my private message box notified me of an eager young woman who was keen to tell me something. “There’s a Balinese psychic that you must see. She has helped me a lot in the past two years to find my way and might be able to help you on your way.” “Wait. Is it Novi?” “Yes! Do you know her?” “No but my reiki teacher recommended her.” This young woman proceeded to write long rectangular boxes of why I needed to see Novi. “She does tarot,” she wrote, “And she really has a clue.” That got my attention. Four years ago, I opened my first satin drawstring pouch in which, stacked neatly, was a whimsical set of tarot cards. The part in me that will forever be fascinated with fortune tellers shivered in delight as I pulled them out, feeling their slippery unused surfaces. Mainly, I had bought it as a means to stimulate my muse when I had writer’s block. I would become the fortune teller who would tell my characters’ fortune when my story got stuck in a rocky rut. It helped me a lot and then, for fun, it took on a life of its own. The pack became my friend because the images fascinated me. I kept it always in my handbag and occasionally played “fortune teller” with my friends. I can think of a number of people I know who would be horrified if they knew I had a set of tarot cards, dubbing them with the black smear of heresy. But I’ve learned over time to silence the voices in my head, other than my own. Tarot is beautiful and creative. It fascinates me and that’s the end of it. If we’re not here to be fascinated then what are we here for? So I got on a gojek - a taxi motorbike. I was attentive to the sky enough to know that a downpour was coming and wise enough to put on a rain poncho. I hurried to catch the appointment with Novi that I had not meant to keep. Her house was twenty minutes away from the center of Ubud. The driver stopped the bike to ask for directions from the passive shop owners on the road. After a short shouting match in the middle of the rain, they finally understood each other and my driver said that, yes, now he knew the way. I breathed in the freedom of water, wind, and speed. So blessed to be speeding in the rain, every single cell alive, not a cell left behind, white energy pouring from the sky, expanding from within! When we were close, we called Novi a couple of times for details about her house until, sopping wet, I arrived at her porch. Her front door was practically hidden behind a curtain of green outbursts. She came out to greet me in a her loose batik house dress. There was something so familiar and so Indonesian about her. She had a soothing round face, a short pixie cut, and lots of mango juice in her soul. “Hello!” she called, “Come inside!” I had a feeling this was going to be veeery interesting.

Note: If you'd like to stay update with this blog, you can sign up here.

Tomorrow at six arrived. It was the day I would visit Ketut Arsana at the ashram. But I met the white witch from Canada first. Cat was my reiki teacher. I had read about her online and I liked her face. It was the same way that I chose my therapist in Boston. By the look in her eyes that escaped the confines of the screen and spoke directly to my intuition. This is why I always advise people who promote their work to look into the camera lens so that people could see their soul. Cat’s soul was certainly prevalent in her garden as soon as I entered. Her house had a turquoise door, hidden in a narrow alleyway next to the school. You open it and, like many a Narnian thing, the magic can be felt thick like velvet, thick as the sprawling greens and overgrowth. I walked through the garden in a state of purring pleasure. I knew I had come to the right place.

The house was built for the humid open, like many Balinese houses. The kitchen, the living room and the dining room were all one with the garden, topped with a slanted thatched roof. She gave me the coolest glass of water in existence. We would soon learn that practicing reiki would be dehydrating. Cat herself was a woman who had matured into age but had kept a light floral freshness about her. She spoke barely above a whisper, like she was stroking your cheek every time she opened her mouth. She had lived in the tropics for over twenty years and had built this house herself, she said. It was a lovely house that flaunted a sense of completion, a direct manifestation of a woman who knew she loved the tropics and believed she belonged here. She had carefully collected furniture without over doing it. The house would have made it into Architectural Digest…but not quite. That’s what I loved about it. The "not quite" that made it truly hers. “How did you do it?” I asked, fascinated. “You draw a picture and you give it to someone to make it.” she said matter-of-factly. Could life really be that simple?

Cat listened with intent and nodded with intent. The fibers of me melted here and I became highly attuned guitar strings. It was clear that the garden was cultivated over a course of years with love because things rambled and grew, played and tumbled. There was a lily pond above which two threads of crystal hung to reflect the shards of light from the water like a peddler calling to his goods. Dragonflies came to her, butterflies - I counted about five different kinds - frogs, lizards, and, certainly, mosquitoes. She gave me and my reiki partner two bottles of mosquito repellent and began the lesson.

I knew a little about reiki, having been on the receiving end of it. My first session happened one snowy evening in Boston when I dragged my cousin, Ream, to see a reiki healer. I remember writhing on the healer's table as her hands hovered over my forehead. My third eye might even have burst open.

Cat told us about the origins of reiki. Japanese Dr. Usui had discovered the inspiration for it in the early 20th century during a 21 day meditation on Mount Kurama. He may have also incorporated his knowledge of different Eastern healing techniques such as Qi Gong from China and the Japanese equivalent, kiko. But Dr. Usui's school of thought gained much more fame when an earthquake hit Japan in 1923, measuring 7.9 at the Richter scale. He and his students healed the victims of the earthquake using reiki and the demand for the work climbed high.

The Usui method is very simple and because it is simple, it is often over-complicated by eager fanatics. It looked like I would have to learn spells and potions from someone else!

As we moved steadily into the class, something in me listened closer and closer. Yes? Yes? Yes! Awash with knowing, I confessed to Cat that I had always fantasized about being a witch, helping and healing people. Simple as it was, what if this was the modern day path to that? Cat spoke about channeling the healing powers of the Divine. She spoke about the science behind it. She spoke about setting an intention and letting go of the outcome. We don’t know how the Divine works, she said. Our job is simply to set the intention, to invoke the Divine and to channel. I was enraptured but I realized I already knew all this. It was exquisitely familiar to me. I later told Cat about rokya. In Islamic tradition, we were taught at a very young age to put our hands over an ouchie or an illness, to set an intention for God to heal it, and to “read on it”, that is to say to repeat mantras from the Koran. “That’s very beautiful,” she said. “Then this might really be the healing method for you because you already know it.” She taught us how to sense our own and the other person’s halo of energy or aura. I had idly experimented with my hands before, making that energy expand, larger and larger, like a magnet strengthening. Energy! I had always sensed it but I never knew what to do with it. Often I could feel people, or places, or things like plants and trees. Green energy I called that moist humming I felt in a garden or a deeply saturated forest. In a way, I always knew about it, but I never claimed it or believed that I could be given permission to work with it.

It is ritual in teaching reiki to bring students into attunement. Cat put us both into a trance, putting love and life energy into us. She then, lifted our arms, palms together, over our heads when we were ready to receive "permission" to channel from here on. In that moment, my mind went completely blank and I drifted into a peaceful white place, slippery and silvery like salmon darting in and out of blissful water. Later, as I practiced on my partner, I found my heart opening for her, even though I did not know her very well. I asked God to heal whatever needed to be healed and I channeled love to her. As I drifted into a soft trance-like state, I began to see floral things again floating into my consciousness. I channeled those to her. When asked how she felt afterwards, she said, “It felt very nurturing. I felt safe.” I could feel in my body that it wanted to do this, to offer this to people. It needed practice of course, as Cat repeated to us. Like any craft or practice, discipline is always the tag-along. “They would have burned us at the stake in the past. Some places in the world, they still would.” Cat said, “They’re afraid of us. Of the feminine.” It made me think about the conservative or fundamentalist stream of thought in Saudi - and elsewhere. What would my rigid religion teachers from school think of my learning reiki? Well let me point out one thing about reiki: it sounds very much like rokya. Coincidence? Maybe. But I like it.

I left Cat’s class feeling like I had finally found something, or the beginning of something, or the answer to a question that had hovered over me for a long time: What can my heart offer? I carried this quiet discovery with me back to the guesthouse. Something that was searching for a long time settled down quietly in the buzz of my blood. I needed to process, to linger some place and let it sink in.

But Ketut was waiting. Or was he? Would he remember the woman who almost got run over by a car because she wanted to speak to him? I had to go and find out it. It grew dark soon. I had no idea what I was going to say to him. I only had an inclination to see him, or a curiosity to see how the story would play out. I walked down Jalan Raya, the main street in Ubud, looking for a teeny tiny road that was supposed to clamber up to the ashram. According to the map, I only had to walk uphill and would find it soon around a corner to my left. I stopped to ask for directions a multitude of times and I soon began to learn that the Balinese were probably not the best with directions. As I got close to the street I was looking for, a girl stopped me. She was wearing a white sundress and had a lost look on her face. “Excuse me?” she asked, “Where are you going?” She had seen me looking at the map. “I’m looking for this street.” I told her. Maybe she could tell me where it was. “Yes, but where are you going?” She asked again. “Why, do you know the streets here?” “No I….” “I’m going to an ashram.” She asked me what it was called. It turned out she was trying to go there too. So we decided to walk to it together. Nadire was from Turkey, a twenty four year old who was traveling around the world to escape being tied down by the concrete corporate world just yet. It’s funny how, as humans, we have arrived at an age when we’re all looking for the same thing, salvation from the demands of a world that no longer knew itself. I’m older than Nadire but I too was escaping the corporate world, my possessions, my everyday mental dialogue to find the essence of something. And I can’t seem to stop. So we walked up the hill. Nothing to it. It was just a five minute walk. But in truth, we kept walking until the street got darker and more foreign and there was the promise of rain in the sky. Nadire and I stopped for directions about six times. No one seemed to know where the ashram was until finally, a guy sitting in a warung - Balinese word for cafe - gave us a wry smile; we were silly little chickies who thought we could get to the ashram on foot in this dark night. “Ooooh!” he explained, “Dat is tree kilometer from here!” Three kilometers from here. We needed a motorbike. We had no cash. And the land around us seemed to disappeared off into a shapeless grid, like the edge of the screen on your computer game. It started to rain. There was no way to the ashram now. I had missed my appointment with Ketut. The disappointment of a quest failed crept up on me. But I decided to let go of Ketut, like I did laboriously with so many other expectations. If I was meant to see him, I would, I told myself and turned to the friend newly made. “Are you up for chicken Satay?”

Note: If you like to stay updated about this blog please sign up here.

You can call them the midwives of consciousness. Dita and Janis sit on the floor next to you as you weep and convulse, whispering sweet things to that brokenness that rises to the surface. Two rebirthers, touring the world to revert the humans that come their way to the pure conscious state before any of it happened at all. They will take you to the time before you were even born, to clear the imprints that happened there. Very often we sabotage ourselves and our happiness because of those imprints. They happen in childhood because of wounds we experienced or witnessed with our caretakers. They could be as simple as negative things said that get stuck in our subconscious forever. Some of these imprints happen in the moment of birth. “Imagine what it must feel like to a newborn who is forced into the world when it was not ready to come out. Imagine being taken from the warmth and safety of the womb into the harsh hospital lights, away from the mother to get cleaned and snipped and patted on the back by people who do not and cannot give it a mother’s love in the first minutes of its birth. Imagine the trauma!” According to Dita, even this very common instance can cause some negative imprints on our existence. It is very common that when your blockages are cleared through this process- or in the myriad of other processes - you find yourself awakening to your life's purpose.

So, I told her I was born caesarean at seven months. I decided to try it. I didn’t know what I would get out of it having done a lot of inner child work before. My life's purpose had always been to be a storyteller but recently, in the past couple of years, there had always been a missing piece. Storytelling feeds the hungry creator inside me, from the moment I wrote my first "long" story and my mother read it making ecstatic sounds at my creation. Storytelling feeds my love for the fun of meeting characters that don't exist in the world of form and going on their journeys as if they were my own. Essentially, storytelling fed my mind. But my heart felt left out. I have been getting signals from my heart that it needed more than just that. more than the pride at having the power to imitate life gave me. Storytelling was not enough. Was I here in Bali looking for my purpose? I lay on the floor in their bedroom one chilly evening. The house was tucked away into a rural jungle. The night was heavy with rain, dense with promise. Dita was sitting next to me on her knees. We swam together in the lull of the feminine music. She instructed me to breath through my mouth, taking gulps of air like I was coming out of the surface of water with every inhale. “Conscious connected breathing,” she said, “Don’t pause between your inhales and exhales. And keep going. Don’t stop.” The breath work was meant to take me to an altered state of consciousness. It felt unnatural. Or maybe it was natural but we, as frazzled human beings buried under expectations and everyday stress are too traumatized by existence to breathe the way we were meant to breathe. My chest began to constrict and resist. “Open your jaw wider! Like you’re coming out of water!” Dita insisted. My jaws hurt. My chest hurt. Soon my hands began to get numb. Two bee hives buzzed in my palms. Earlier, Dita sat with me and we talked about my main concerns. I was ashamed to admit my troubles to her. Not just to her but also to myself, to the Universe. “I can’t believe in God’s miracles. I can’t believe in magic. I really want to. I desperately want to. I’m tired of science and accumulative reason telling us what we can and can’t do.” “Do you think you are worthy of God’s miracles?” she asked. That was the question. Aye there’s the rub… As we traversed even deeper in the breath work, the numbness spread from my palms to my arms. My heart began to pump sadness through the compression in my chest as I slipped into nowhere. “What are you feeling?” she asked gently. The numbness was spreading to my face. My speech was slurred. “Sa’ness” I said. “You are sad because…?” I couldn’t say it. But I had to. “Because of the separation.” “Separation from who?” “F’om God.” “You’re separated because…?” That’s what I wanted to know. I shook my head. No words. The sadness arriving in full speed now, thick and deep like war trenches. My sobs came as raspy chokes. My face was like a newborn wailing but no sound came out because the existential rift felt so mountainous and silencing. I was resentful actually. To be in this body. No. I was not resentful. I was angry. To be here in this reality, where we couldn’t see, or hear or touch God. Dita tried to get me to talk but the silent sobs racked my body so that my chest lifted off the floor and the pain came through me. There was no denying this pain any longer. It had probably been there since the day I was born. My hands were levitated off the ground as a summons. Dita let me sob. I never sobbed like that before, like I was choking the largest question humanity has ever asked God: Why am I here? Why did you put me here? “Keep breathing,” Dita gently reminded, “Take that breath of life. Let life in.” I gasped. I gulped. When the sobs had had their way with me, I settled down. The numbness had turned now into complete oblivion and absence from the physical world. I didn’t realize that I was ascending somewhere and was slowly landing. It was a place so faceless and quiet. And there was only love. That and gardens. So many of them floated into my consciousness; visions from a distant time, an unknown place. I could see glimpses of them. Doors to gardens. Pathways to gardens. Gardens hidden behind trees. Castles in gardens in forests. And then nothing at all. Just a quiet thrum in my entire being.

I love you was the cushion that held me there in place for a while. You’re safe. You’re here. The thrum grew and spread. The soft primordial ringing that I often heard in meditation was a loud rush now, working through me. I felt like, in my palms, I was holding two big balls of energy. I could feel the weight and heat of them. And then all subsided like a wave does on a beach, leaving the sand to glisten and moan in delight. I opened my eyes. Later I asked Dita, if my hands were really levitating off the floor. She said they were on the floor the whole time. Even after this first cathartic experience, I didn’t think I needed to do this process another time. Breathing through your open mouth like every breath is your first breath of life is not an easy thing to do. It certainly isn’t fun if you’re not used to it. But I went to the group session that Dita and Janis prepared the next day. We were going to be reborn together, all of us, a gang from different parts of the world, coming together to put pinpricks light into accumulative consciousness.

After an hour of ecstatic dance, we all settled down on the floor in an open yoga studio in the middle of a writhing sighing forest. And the breathing began. We were told that different things could come up for different people. Some felt pain, anger or resentment. Some people were even reputed to get up and dance in the middle of it. For me this time, it was utter and complete bliss from beginning to end. The breath came in in large cool streams that traveled down undisturbed. My chest was accepting life again. I heard sobs around me as I breathed, even from the men. Someone emitted some strange sounds in the thick of the session. But I heard those things only like gauze in the back of my mind when I drifted back to the studio from those gardens in my consciousness. Then I would float back into the green. In and out of secret spots, hidden copses of trees, hidden clumps of sweet floral things. Stone walls. Ivy. Tropical flowers. Thick verdant jungles. The breaths were life for me this time and I understood why I needed to do it again, to see this, to witness a blockage disappeared. In integration, the last stage of the process, the freeway in my soul came to the conclusion, that it was worthy of magic, of anything and everything. It came to the crystalline conclusion that it was magic. The music in the background drifted over to confirm...

Do you know you're beautiful...

Do you know you're beautiful...

From the Eden around the studio...

I open my eyes and lay there, awash with a new and lush brand of joy. This must be how a bud feels when it's time to open. It felt like celebration. So I got up when it was over and danced my way out in the middle of the jungle rain because the singing in my cells was louder than reason, louder than anything and it sang like coconut milk.

I had been waiting for the real magic start, especially after my disappointing encounter with Cok Rai - who may have been right about my unbalanced hormones, by the way - but I did not realize that for any kind of magic to happen, I had to believe first. As Damien, a British energy healer and one of the fellow newborns in the group, said to me that night, when we all gathered over kombucha, "It's not seeing is believing. It's believing is seeing."

I am convinced that this is the paradigm of the new Earth. Damien looked for signs of recognition on my face. And the believing part that was just rebirthed smiled back at him.

Note: If you would like to stay updated on this blog, please sign up here.

I borrowed this picture from google images, as I didn't think it was appropriate to take a picture with him.

He stood over me as I lay there on my back, making signs in the air with his fingers, mystical signs that I didn’t understand. He raised his arms to God, then drew more markings and pathways in the air. He was healing my womb, my poor inactivated womb. He seemed to me as I lay there like a fascinating archetype from an old fantasy novel that probably no one has read because it didn’t sell much. The village mystic. The old man in the cave, that people revered and feared. I was intimidated myself as I watched him “make a blessing” for me. Grey hair swept back, weathered face like the leathery skin of an avcado, sharp black eyes that didn’t joke much but glittered in mild sarcasm were now raised to the heavens in shamanic abandon. I was fascinated. But a burble of humor kept me sober. Later, he made markings on my abdomen to heal my diabetes. One thing ran through my mind throughout the process: I wish I could believe you

Cok Rai - pronounced chok raai - was a very well known spiritual healer. Dewa my driver and friend took me to see him. It was a twenty minutes drive outside of Ubud. In the backseat, Dewa had prepared an offering for me in a wicker box to give to Cok Rai. In it, he had put a bedding of flowers and frangipani. Too sweet for a man of his austere demeanor.

Cok Rai's house is nestled in the middle of a soothing copse of trees. Like Ketut Liyer's house, it was open to visitors who wished to see the spiritual healer.

I had decided earlier not to tell him I had diabetes to see if his powers would find it. After I gave him a traditional Balinese offering and his fee, he sat me down on the floor in front of him, where he sat on a chair. He asked me where I was from and we spoke briefly about God. Then he made me turn around and put my head in his hands. His fingers roamed about my face and head, somewhat frantically, like a spider with thick sausage legs. My eyes, my cheeks my nose, my ears. Then he pressed his thumbs in that fleshy spot underneath the crook of my jaw. I cried out sharply. Screws turning! “Yeah!” he said. Then he looked for spots on my head and pressed. Nails boring through my head! I cried out again! “Yeah! That is your hormone. You must take omega 3 and vitamin B12.” That was when he made me lie down. He got on the floor and pressed my middle toe. It hurt like fuck. I writhed on the floor. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” he goaded, like he had found the demon. “Your uterus not activated. No children yet.Your ovaries not activated.” Well I know that! Hence, the blessing. Was he going to let me go with only this knowledge? That my uterus was inactivated? That was when I jumped in and told him about the diabetes, since we was clearly not going to find it himself. He sat down again and pressed my second toe. “Ouuuuch!” I cried. “Yeah, yeah! That is your blood circulation.” After the markings on my abdomen, he told me I must mind my sugar intake, exercise, and not keep my problems in, to let them out, to not stress, to release my feelings. I knew all of that too. I wish I could believe you. I left, deflated. I had gone in with no expectations, but clearly I had some. Maybe I would have believed if he had touched me somewhere and knew I had diabetes? Or maybe my diabetes was only in my head, and all those other doctors’ heads and all the blood tests I had gotten in the past three years? Or maybe this man was just a traditional hoax to lure the tourists? Why didn’t he find it? I wanted him to find it on his own. I wanted to believe…that there was something other that western medicine. I wanted to believe in the subtle weaving thing beneath existence, in the force. I wanted it to show itself so I could get close to it, touch it. I realized it was not just my diabetes that needed to be seen and helped, but also my heart’s need for the Divine in ways it had not experienced it before.

When I arrived back in Ubud, I walked around the village. What if I I’m not meant to find magic? What I’m meant to live a magic-less life where science explains everything and modern doctors rule our bodies and the pathways of our lives become like urban streets, straight and predictable? I wanted to see something extraordinary that defies all of that. I wanted to see a marvel. I asked God to show me something. Anything. I just wanted to see. So I walked some more, from shop to shop (I want to buy everything. I want to buy this whole Island). Wayan had told me earlier to visit a man called Ketut Arsana, the village guru. He gives healing therapies in a local place called Bodyworks, he had said. I must go to him. Have a massage with him. So I remembered to stop by and see if I could have an appointment. The lady at the desk said that his schedule was full until December and would I like to book for December? No, I wouldn’t because I don’t live here (yet, whispered a voice inside me). “Well how can I see him,” I asked her. “Look there!” She pointed through the open door to a man across the street. The man had a long grey beard made of a thousand cobwebs matted into each other. He had a helmet on and was preparing to get on his motorbike. I ran out to catch him and in my excitement, I almost crossed the street in busy traffic. “Be careful!” He cried. “I want to speak to you!” I said to him from the other side of the street. When I was able to cross, I went to him. “Hello! Are you Ketut Arsana?” “Yes!” He had the energy of someone who was as alive and vibrant as he was when he was a teenager. The effect was marvelous because with his grey beard and the lines on his face, he transmitted the entire cycle of life in one person. I shook his hand and he leaned forward, almost as if he wanted to hug me. “I would like to learn healing,” I said to him lamely. I can’t remember if his eyes were black or brown but they were certainly very warm. He looked through me with a loving smile and said “Oh!” He squeezed my arm, as though searching for my energy. “You can come to the ashram tomorrow after six.”

I carried that promise in an enthused bundle and took it home like a prize. Was this an answer to my prayer? I didn’t know. But I had another healing adventure in an hour. I was about to be reborn by Dita and her boyfriend Janis.

Let me just say that motorbikes were never my thing. Until I came to Ubud. By now, I have traveled around behind different drivers. I have put my arms around gorgeous washboard abs, potbellies, and fleshy female middles. I have traveled in cloudy weather, in sunshine and at night in pouring rain. I never imagined it could stir my juices to be on a motorbike! But when we traveled to see Ketut Liyer’s son, we went on foot. I could have chosen to get on a motorbike, to get there faster, but there is something about walking to him; the curious journey that gets you there. Dita came along for the fun of it. We spent half the day stopping at cafes and restaurants, trying out the lovely offerings of Bali; banana lassi, tom-yum soup, sweet coconut juice straight from coconuts as big as bowling balls.

The most beautiful Tom-Yum soup I've ever seen.

They should make coconut juice the new water. Witches who kidnap children to steal their youth should be given a chill pill and a big coconut to drink because that's youth right there in the hull. We shopped around and stopped to ask for directions to Ketut's place as we went along. Then we meandered some more, haggling here, nodding politely there and almost buying things we would later regret. Late into the afternoon,we were close to the Liyer house. Ketut’s son Putu is now taking up his father’s tradition and practice. I was excited to meet him. A part of me was worried, however, that we would not find the house. What if he was not at home? That would be just my luck. Shh! Don’t say that! The road took us into a rural neighborhood where the asphalt merged with the dirt. The chickens and roosters were kings and queens, here. So many houses with tiny elaborate doorways jumbled up together between the palms. The facades were faded and more ramshackle than they were in central Ubud. I tuned into the quiet purr that my curiosity makes when I’m just about to find out something. Finally, Dita found it. We entered gingerly through the doorway. It felt odd to just be able to enter the house of someone so revered in the village without so much as a knock, let alone a ring. But then, you could enter all the houses in Bali because almost all of them, kept their front doors open.

The medicine man was sitting on the steps of one of the raised platforms, chatting with his family. I asked if I could speak to him. His matriarch (I’m not sure if it was his mother or his wife) told me to pay then signaled for a small woman to take care of the sacred business of putting me into a sarong. You cannot speak to the medicine man in cotton pants! A moment later, I walked up to the platform where Putu was waiting for me. He gestured for me to sit on the wicker mat, opposite him. Now, I could write in exact wording what he said to me and what I said to him but I would like to point out what seeing Putu meant to me. This man, as soon as I began to talk to him, had a lemony-sweet energy, like a frangipani flower. I never experienced this energy with another human being. He emitted such pure and childlike joy that must have bloomed a multitude of times in his life that he has probably forgotten what suffering feels like by now. I was in such gratitude to be in this presence that I bloomed myself, starting from the heart and out to my limbs. Putu seemed rounder and stockier than his father, less intimidating (at least from the pictures). His face shone, especially when the apples of his cheeks were pulled up in a wide grin. So many glistening teeth! The smile almost made his eyes disappear behind his spectacles. I put my palms together and said “I’m very happy to see you!"

Taken by Dita :)

“I’m happy to see you too!” he responded and the grin got even wider. As he spoke to me, I became more and more present with him until, for a few seconds, I experienced the merger of myself with my surroundings, with him, with his grin and all the lines became sharper, like the cut of a mold. It was both frightening and exhilarating, like a spontaneous brush with nirvana. “You are very beautiful!” he said to me, “You should learn dancing! Balinese dance!” “Oh I want to!” “Yes, your face very good for dancing. And you have - I forget in Englees - you have dimple!” The joy made me giggly. Then just like that _ “You are artist.” he said, “You must to continue work. You are very luckyyyy! Okaaay? You must be creative! More like dat. Get experience. Okaaay? No more problem! No more sad!” “No more sad!” I repeated. “Yes. You very sensitive. Don’t let problem problem come to you, okaaay?” “Ok.” “What you do for job?” “I work in TV. I’m also a writer.” “Ooooh you like - you know Eleesabet Gilber?” Don’t I? He proceeded to tell me about how Elizabeth Gilbert used to come to his father with her troubles. He spoke about her like she was a distant relative we both knew and cared about. And maybe she was. “Lees not believe my father at first. Now she very happy. First she go to Italy. She eating eating. No good. Not happy! Then she go to India and praying. Good for her praying. Still not enough. She come to Bali, then, love!” He ended the story with a laugh that shook him backward. The best synopsis of Eat, Pray, Love I ever heard. I wondered, however, if Ketut’s family used the success of the book to boost their business. It could be that. Or it could be that Putu was truly proud of Liz for her inspirational journey which has touched millions of lives. Or it could be a synchronous instance of chance that he mentioned her just then as I'm very much enamored with her story. “You also be happy!” he continued, “You continue working. You do - what is dat I forget in Englees - you looking looking, writing.” “Research?” “Yes! You experience. You learning and den you write. Like dat, you see? You do research.” I never even mentioned this blog to him. That took me by surprise and filled me with the serenity of assurance. Then, I told him I was heartbroken. “Don’t worryyy. Love will come to you again. You are so very luckyyyy! Okaaay?” He opened my palms to read them. I remember what he found in my palm. I remember clearly what he said to me. He explained to me what every line means and what my own unique imprint foretold. But as he read my fortune, and most of it was wonderful, I was already dismissing it as we went along. I retracted internally a little bit because I did not want to be told how many husbands I would have or how many children. Least of all when I would die. Something hit home for me, however. He found a second life line next to the primary one. He traced it, a small forking almost imperceptible line. “You see dis one? This mean you have second life. Second chance. You unhappy where you live, you can move again. Don’t go back to unhappy. If Saudi make you unhappy you don’t go back der. No more problem!” I never mentioned how I felt about my home country, either. “You come to Bali!” Yes, move to Bali. Can I admit here that I’ve thought about it? This fruity chunk of paradise that fell from the heavens. I have not seen suffering on the faces of the Balinese. Even the beggars on the sidewalk keep their palms open, asking for kindness, but with a smile and unshakable serenity. And I have heard the most heartfelt “good mornings” here. Not offered out of politeness or social decorum, but from a genuine place that cares whether or not you have a good day, or whether you arrive back safely at the end, or whether you have a nourishing meal, or if someone will have kissed your heart today. Well Putu certainly kissed mine. I thanked him with my palms together and got up. On our way out of Ketut's Place, Dita seemed a little aloof. “How was it?” she asked. “It was beautiful.” “Yeah but what did he tell you that you didn’t already know?” A protective stop sign came up within me. Here again, an experience being discounted, yanked back into the world of reason and skepticism. I grew up in this world and I knew how it goes. I was so used to having my experiences discounted by the “adults”. This world has done its job on me perfectly well. I am a tenacious skeptic myself but I am in recovery. “I’d rather let it sink in before I talk about It.” I said to her. Dita had certain convictions about palmistry. I heard about them all the way back. I had my own too but I was not ready to share. Later, as we had tea and coffee, she mentioned her angel numbers, a mode of communication with the Divine that she believed in. “I can’t understand angel numbers.” I said to her, “I often find that the interpretations are vague enough to be what you want to hear.” She raised her eyebrows slyly. “Like seeing Ketut.”

“Exactly,” I told her, “Angel numbers obviously mean something to you. They have a truth to them and they make sense to you. They don’t to me. It’s the same with seeing Ketut. Intuition communicates with us and comes alive through many channels and we each connect with the channel that feels right to us.” My meeting with Putu was not only words, or assurances, or even magical fortune telling. It was an exchange of energy. Yes, the words pleased me. They pleased me so much that I forgot about my heartbreak and haven’t thought about it or felt it since. I have even reconciled myself with how my consciousness feels in the aftermath of the relationship that I lost. I’ve felt and accepted the elevation that it brought me. Some great hand in the sky had forced the banana peel off me to reveal the rambutan within. But I thought about my coversation with Dita for a while afterwards. I wanted to fairly and in a heart-centered way detect what it was that bothered me exactly. I knew exactly what I was taking in my heart from my encounter with Putu. I knew exactly what I left behind. If I was so sure about my own discernment then why did it bother me so much? The answer came from Miriam. Miriam is a wonderful witchy woman I met here. She is from Ireland. We became friends over fried fish and steamed rice. Miriam has had many struggles in her life and has come to Bali to heal. We talked about our journeys and about Ireland and fairies and leprechauns. We talked about demons. We talked about how the Balinese lack the understanding of privacy; her landlord was in the habit of entering her rented home without permission. This was due, of course, to the Balinese culture of keeping all doors open day and night. It is said to allow the Gods free entry. Miriam and I segued into discussing our personal truths and the boundaries we need to lovingly set up around them, even if it is to keep our loved ones from crossing over. “People make you doubt yourself,” she said. “And you let them.” Yes. It’s that feeling of being patronized and infantilized. I reflected internally that that was what I received from Dita whether she intended it or not - the influence of my own mother and father and a host of teachers in school, possibly my aunt too. Miriam and I recounted the instances in both our lives when our experiences or truths were discredited by the people in our lives, our families, our cultures, our schools. I’m finding it appropriate to share with you Miriam’s very charming and very Irish point of view. “A pig in shite.” She said with a thick Irish accent. “What?” “A pig in shite! You know! Shit!” I was a little confused. She proceeded to explain with her almond blue eyes brightening. “If you are happy with your pig in shite, that’s great. But if someone else is not happy with your pig in shite well that’s their shite! Ha!” So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, probably the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. So be happy with your pig in shite. In fact, roll in the shite yourself.

The first words that came to mind when the plane landed are Kekap Manis. And I giggled. It was dark outside like the Kekap Manis bottle. We were introduced to it through our Indonesian nannies when we were children. In Arabic, we called it “black ketchup”. It’s not ketchup, of course, more of a strong sticky soy syrup that made food shades more interesting. I was worried that Indonesia would smell like one of my nannies’ strange chilis mixtures; they smelled like fish guts turned inside out cooked with garlic and sewage water. It would waft around the house but no one would say anything because it would be rude stop the woman from making her native food. The first thing I do when I arrive, is keep my nose sharp for the aroma. Every country, or part of the Earth has its own aroma. I remember noticing it the first time in England when I visited in 2007 with my mother. The summer countryside smelled so ripe and warm and sweet that it was on the verge of spoiling. In 2008, Japan smelled like Sakura. It was in the sheets, in the soaps, in the food and even on the Japanese themselves. As for Bali - bracing my myself for the possibility of something nasty - it took me twenty four hours after arrival to try to describe the way it smells. In fact, my nose has been introduced to so many new aromas since I arrived here that I don’t, as of now, have the vocabulary to put it accurately together. I can safely say, though, that Bali smells like a mixture of smoky coffee beans, jackfruit, and wet laundry hanging out to dry in the sun. I’m staying in a room at a guesthouse in Ubud. The guesthouse business is rife here that I wonder if it is ever threatened by chain hotels or even by AirBnb. This guesthouse is owned by a man called Wayan and his son. It’s a lovely meandering place, four little “huts” within the walls of one house with a temple in the middle and gardens sprawling lush in between.

Everyone I have met so far has been startlingly kind. It’s the land, I think. On my drive from Denpasar to Ubud, I witnessed the infinite abundance here. There’s so much of everything and nothing is being extorted. There’s so much grass, so many trees, shingles, motorbikes textiles, pebbles. The Earth just gives and gives and then gives some more without depleting itself. A land that gives, breeds gentleness and you could see it on Balinese faces - well most of them anyway. The greens painted thickly with a palette knife in the rice fields from a never-ending tub of pigment. Confused blue and white sky.The roads travel through impasses in the jungle where the trees fight through carved stone walls to let their hair tumble above you in golden strings. Lime green butterflies. Herons dipping their feet in the muddy rice paddies. Dragonflies as large as jumbo prawns. Banana trees; wise old crones with bloody flowers bigger than your head. I smelled a cinnamon leaf for the first time in my life. If you break it apart and sniff the moisture you’ll find real cinnamon trapped inside only your nose will find it greener than the stick. Everything was a wonder and a marvel. Yesterday I was in harsh concrete Dubai. And now, I’m walking in a coffee and spice plantation sampling the real riches of the Earth.

Samples of teas and coffees made with the spices grown in the plantation. They bring you a tray that looks like an alchemist's ingredients and you sample shots of ginger tea, turmeric tea, lemongrass tea, Balinese vanilla coffee, ginger coffee, Balinese mocha and other curiosities.

Wayan settled me in, very kindly and practically. He’s a short rectangular man with a face that wants to please but ends up looking confused instead. You could see him jumping from thought to thought only to arrive at the first again. There's is absolutely nothing about him contrived or unreal, from his patterned Balinese shirt to his flip-flops. I had a small stroke of inspiration. “Do you know Ketut Liyer?” I asked him. “Oh no! He dead!” he answered. I was comforted by his answer. Ketut Liyer was a well-known medicine man here in Ubud. He was also, the man who inspired Elizabeth Gilbert to come to Bali and, possibly, the reason behind Eat Pray Love. I already knew Ketut Liyer was dead. He died in the past year, as per Liz Gilbert’s facebook page. The reason I asked was because I wanted to witness how well the Balinese people knew each other. And, also, I was reaching for the confirmation that those people were not just characters in a book. “Well I want to see a medicine man. Best after Ketut Liyer,” I told him. “You go Hi-san” “Hisan? What is that? An Arabic name?” Maybe this medicine man is Muslim. “No His-san” It registered. “Oh! His son!” Ketut Liyer’s son is now the best medicine man in Ubud. Why do I want to see a medicine man? At first, I rationalized it as practically experimenting with holistic and traditional methods of healing in Asia. Yeah, my brain liked that. Nice and tidy and perfectly justified. We’ll start making a billboard…we could even throw in “looking for a cure for diabetes” somewhere in the tagline. But once my mind went to bed, I knew I was searching for something more meaningful. Not the medicine man or his practice. Not the healer and his apothecary. I think I’m searching for signs. Clues. Communications.

In the meantime, I was hungry. I was curious to know if I would like Balinese food as well I liked the Indonesian food we cooked at home. My great grandfather brought pilgrims from Indonesia to Mekkah for a living. Indonesian culture did not come into our family just from our nannies but from a legacy of voyages back and forth from the dessert to the tropics. I grew up eating and loving Indonesian food. It has never been foreign to me. My grandmother is a top chef in Javanese cuisine. My aunt - and her Indonesian helper - come next. But having it from the source must be an entirely different thing. I went for the most popular dish: Nasi Goreng with Chicken Satay. Not very adventurous but delectable to the last bite.

Afterwards, I went to see my friend Dita, my goddess friend Dita. She’s a cottony fiery luscious thing from Latvia that you can’t consume in large gulps because there’s not much of her. You could gobble her up too fast if you’re not careful. With Dita, you must learn to savor. Dita and I met in London back in March after I had completed the Hoffman Process. We were seated next to each other in a restaurant after being introduced by a friend. We spent the day walking and talking afterwards, as some well-fated friendships start. In a holistic Balinese hotel, Dita had arranged a “secret” goddess dance workshop for ladies, where she taught us bellydancing and celebrating our sexuality. It was a sublime experience but I left still a little deflated, not because the workshop was lacking- in moments it was ecstatic - but because, in the background, I was longing for a time past when I used to dream about sharing a trip like this with some people who are no longer in my life. There was also that ennui and sense of abandonment, being all alone on a tropical island with barely someone I know. I walked around Ubud at night feeling a heaviness settling inside me. The heartbreak that I was nursing in Dubai came back to be my shadow, tugging at my sleeves, my face, my eyelids. I didn’t know if I had the energy to nurse it some more. What was is it I was searching for and why wasn’t it happening already? I heard you calling, Bali, from miles away, months ago, like a large juicy mango-something had risen inside me and sung in an operatic note: Go to Bali! And then this large mango-something breathed like a living being, and made sweet juices in my belly to make sure I arrived. Well I’m here. It’s only the first day, I argued impatiently with my impatience. Then, in that instant, I found myself walking into a Buddhist shop of miniatures and statuettes. There was a hum, a tune, playing from behind the counter…playing from before, reminding me, luring me further into the store…Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyam. Bhargo devasaya dheemahi dhiyo yo naha prachodayat….(See Cyprus Journal).

(To listen to a nice version of it, here's a nice version from itunes)

It was an invitation. I knew it was. Yes. I’m here. I accept. I stood in reverence, in fleeting love. Back at my little spot at the guesthouse, I sat down in my garden in the dark to meditate. Rain fell; gentle little licks, first here, then there. It would have been a deep dewy meditation had it not been for the mosquitoes! I went to bed wondering if I was really going to find Ketut Liyer’s son.

I've decided to name my apartment ground zero. I came here after a perfect storm of life things that huffed and puffed and blew me in this direction. Too many days, I arrive back from work and curl up into a ball and cry because of the stress, of the heartbreak, the confusion, the worry, the gaping demands of a life in a city that never stops devouring. And I’ve never been completely on my own in my life. I’m a thirty year old who is just learning the things a twenty-year old in the US, for example, is just beginning to experience when she leaves the family nest. That makes me ten years late by US Central Time. My body is changing already. My tolerance for being on the go and for staying up all night is starting to dwindle. My heart is beaten up and bruised and I’m only just learning about interest rates on personal loans with the bank. Living and working in Dubai was not what I imagined it would be. My apartment doesn’t have much furniture. Most of the time, there are too many dishes to wash as I don’t have a dishwasher. The floors are constantly telling me not to sit down on them because they’re too hard. The sofa I bought from Ikea does not have cushions to soften my fall when I just want to give in to distress. My bed is not accompanied with nightstands yet so my “by the bed” items are either on the floor or in bed with me. The doors don’t close properly and I only have one set of bed sheets. I’m not complaining. The reason I’m writing all this down is because for a long time since I’ve been here, I’ve been looking at this place and constantly picturing what it should look like, all the things that are missing, until my head started to hurt. Until my body felt tired and rejected. Until I felt trapped in a place that just will not feel like home. I’ve also looked at my body, at my heart, at my days, at my work here and they did not feel like home either. But I let go of that tangle today.

Today, something different happened. One of the presenters on our morning show, decided to shave his head on air, to express his solidarity with women who are diagnosed with breast cancer. I didn’t realize that my sun was rising until I was watching him shaving his thick dark Aladdin hair on set. I felt inexplicable gratitude to be a part of it, to have been the person that facilitated this heart-felt gesture. It’s these things that happen, sometimes through little or no contribution on your end, that come as a breathtaking reminder of who you are and where you are. I realized I have not appreciated myself. Or maybe I have been appreciating myself over and over in the past four months. I’ve been repeating it, writing it, looking myself in the mirror and affirming it but myself has not been listening. She was still busy moving boulders from the driveway.

I came home today, after a walk in the park, and looked around. I’m growing here. I was grateful to have been the person who facilitated the growth of me. Just like our presenter’s shaved head, I will grow back, probably in no time at all. And in Aladdin hair thickness. Too often, your growth feels wrong, like you’re missing all the steps or mixing up all the words. Something is wrong. With you. Growth actually feels like wrenches are being thrown at your head and you’re not allowed to duck. You’re not allowed to do the “right” thing either. You constantly feel like there’s some cosmic manual out there and you’re failing at every instruction. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now. I really don’t. I only know one constant: I am documenting it. So, one way I’m making peace with the path I chose here in this city is this: Dubai is the land of construction. Buildings come up here so quickly, you have no time to admire the beams and the concrete before it’s some magnificent thing spiraling toward the sky. I’ve been nothing but beams and concrete in the past few months, so raw and rigid. Things have been pounding and hurting and hammering, making way for the design to rise from the ground - or from this very sterile white ceramic floor. When I was a student in Boston, my apartment was the landmark of coziness and lovely hospitality. If you slept over, I would practically put you to bed. If you came to watch a movie, I would have had snacks and warm creamy things for you to drink. My apartment now might not have the coziest throws or blankets. The smell of cookies is not wafting from my kitchen (although I have been wolfing down Chips Ahoy cookies like there’s no tomorrow). I might not be the best hostess, right now. Because this is ground zero. We’re doing some serious growing here. And if you're living and working in Dubai, maybe we can meet and swap growth stories.

Note: You can share your growth stories on this blog. Just go to Your Story on the website menu. You can drop in and tell a story anytime :)

I don’t think anyone wants to be a failure in love. No one wants to be wounded in love. I don’t think anyone really wants to be an asshole in love either. But somewhere between our ideal and our bruised experiences, we become one of those things. It hurts. It really does, especially when you know that your intentions are simply to love and be loved and always have been. I was watching Moulin Rouge for the umpteenth time a couple of nights ago, hoping to heal my heart with a good look at Ewan Mcgregor’s dimples. The greatest thing is just to love and be loved in return. That was the line that stuck in the film. As much as I enjoy early 20th century bohemian revelry, I could not finish the film. Even though I knew the ending very well, I could not watch two lovers thwarted yet again by whatever forces exist on Earth that create separation. I’ve had enough of this separation myself. These forces could be death. But they could also be jealousy, our own foolishness, trust shattered, promises broken, fear unconquered, our past wounds wounding the person with whom we share our love. And many more. (Spoiler alert below). In the film, when Zidler tells Satine that she’s dying, she makes the decision not to run away with Christian. In form, it was her death that separated them, but the truth was that it was her fear that held her back from possibly conquering all the barriers from love with the man who was devoted to her. She might have died still, if they had run away together. She might also have lived because she would have gotten herself out of a spiritually suffocating life situation and allowed love and openness to take the lead. Who knows? It’s only a story anyway.

The point is, I wonder if we can just sit ourselves down and watch over our own chronological timelines and see where it is that we ourselves have thwarted love. Have we allowed ourselves to be victims of neglect or separation or unavailability? Or have we given in to fear over and over? Have we betrayed our loved one? Have we perhaps, failed to remain present, to see the beauty in our partner? I have loved, have thwarted and been thwarted. If we cared so much about love, can we make the decision never to thwart love again? Can we really cut that crap? I mean, is it humanly possible? At this point, in the depths of discouragement, I am trying to visualize love as a shampooing process. You love. If you fail, you rinse. When you’re squeaky clean - and only then, you repeat. Simple, no? Oh boy.

I was sleeping in Katerina’s bed one night. The candle next to me had burnt down. The sanskrit lullaby that put me to sleep had faded. As soon as my eyes registered the room, the windows, and Katerina’s cozy clutter, the darkness pounced into my belly again. No, not again. I wailed inwardly. Yes, again. The tormentor threw on its cloak and came. It turned into a physical grip in my body. Flashes of things came to me, raw, in psychedelic speed; A Course in Miracles sitting on the kitchen table outside, prayer calls, my bed in Riyadh, wet sand, starry skies on hiking trips, blue eyes, yoga poses, the Koran, stealth, a changing heart hidden deep in my chest, hellfire, God in the hovering disembodied form that I always imagined Him in… I rose just then. Not from the bed but from the grip of the darkness. I did something so simple and instinctual: I held myself in a fierce embrace. And I rose even taller and looked that darkness in the eye and whispered: “This is a good person. I will love her and protect her no matter what. She does not deserve to be punished, or tortured, or hurt. Even if you choose to punish her eternally, I will not let you. I will stand up for her and keep her safe. This is a good person…this is a good person…” I wept then because my own words struck me. The gong of truth! “This is a good person…” I repeated that until the darkness vanished. Peace washed through my belly like a wave and I eased into sleep. I thought about this incident all day the next day and the day after. It felt like a turning point. I still did not fully understand what this darkness wanted and why I felt the need to say what I said to it. The rest of my days in Cyprus went by without incident. They were blissful as I felt myself occupying this new body that was just waking up. Katerina even began opening up to me about her life, something she was shy about. Once, she left me to spend the day with Stephanie at her home while she went to her class. Stephanie and I spent hours chit-chatting about awakening, love, relationships, feminine energy, and all things supernatural.

At some point in the afternoon, I was left unattended so I went outside in an open field alone. It was golden, as most fields were in Cyprus at this time of year. I sat down on the spicy dirt and contemplated the softness that the sun created when it was low in the sky. The air was perfect. Everything was still. I closed my eyes and slipped into meditation. A voice trickled in. It came from somewhere inside of me. It sounded like myself only gentler than I’ve ever been and eternally loving. It flowed, superior to thought and imagination, like warm water from a source I could not trace. I tried not to be too astonished so as to listen. This is what it said to me, as well as I can remember: I love you. I have always loved you. I will continue to love you. I will love you when you cry. I will love you when you are afraid. I will love you no matter what you do. I will love you even when you can’t love. I will love you when you doubt. There might be darkness ahead and I will love you through that. Through pain and sorrow, and, yes, anger, I will love you. Because you are mine… I arrived in Riyadh, knowing in my heart that this state of bliss would not last. We were not made to stay afloat, after all, in steady waters for so long. We were made for the changing current. And the current changed soon, only three weeks after. I had no idea that the darkness that struck me on the beach at Karpaz and in Katerina’s bed would strike again and again, harder and harder, like a blacksmith pounding metal against a relentless anvil. As I went through airports to get back home, I was floating in a state of consciousness so blissful, transcendent and cleansed. When I was a child, I used to hang around my grandfather's driver as he cleaned the dusty marble floors in the yard. He would hose water across until the floors were brown and murky, then, I would watch, fascinated, as he meditatively squeegeed the water through a drain, revealing with every stroke a broad lane of pure white marble. My soul felt squeegeed in the exact same way. I saw and felt everyone around me. Presence so sharp like the glimmer of light bouncing off a steel pot. Joy that flowed from me with incredible ease. I made love to life everyday during those few weeks. I used love like magic that was given to me as a gift and I received love from everyone and everything. I made love to food and received love from sunlight. I did not know then that birth was, in truth, a long laborious process and that I would soon be lying on the floor of my bathroom, in a tight ball, waiting to be annihilated, over and over, for months on end. I sought my bathroom often, because, even behind my locked bedroom door, the bathroom felt like I was going into the womb of solace. This darkness broke me down completely until I had to reveal my dismantling to my family, something I was never wont to do. My older sister worried over me. Some of my friends did not understand it and saw it as overindulgence. I pushed away someone I loved because of it. One person remained faithfully by my side throughout, even at 3 am. in the morning, and I will name her in a separate sentence all to her own. Dalia. I was being abandoned. Something crucial was leaving me. And what was taking its place? I didn’t know. I felt raw and naked and uprooted with my legs flailing. I was constantly terrified and I did not know of what. I moved around like a tortured ghost in a constant state of disassociation (which can cause panic). I tried speaking to the darkness but it would not respond to me. Until, one day it did. I wrote it a letter and it wrote back. It did not make much sense but it wrote back… and so with this open conversation, I began to lead this darkness home to me. Slowly, but surely, with the love I showed myself in Katerina’s bed, I created a tender bedding. It was not until March that I came out the other side, tempered and bright. I had just finished the Hoffman process in the UK, an unconventional therapy program that addresses childhood wounds. The birthing was over. I finally understood that birth does not only give you a new body in a beautiful Cypriot sea but it also rips off your old. Now, I thank the darkness profusely. I still have miles to go and possibly new births in my path. They might be painless. They might be excruciating. I don’t know. But this process was pivotal. This is what a pilgrimage is. It’s not a trip where you only see beautiful things and have an ecstatic time with your “soul friends”. A true pilgrimage strips you. It brings hardship and opens those doors you locked so that the monsters can come in and be healed and transmuted into light. A true pilgrimage welcomes everything and everyone. It welcomes heartbreak, boredom, shame, and even - God forbid - anger. It welcomes the mundane things, the stale moments, the conflicts. It also welcomes oceans of love you never knew you had within you. And two big tubs of Greek yogurt.

Disclaimer: As I did not take many pictures on my trip to Cyprus, I took the liberty of borrowing some images from googles images.

A soup of feelings overcomes me as I write this. I would like to first impress upon you the significance of my time in Cyprus. It was to me a destruction of the hard shell of identity that sustained me my whole life. I couldn’t see it happening, of course, but the storm was gathering inside, sometimes delicious and sometimes…agony. In this moment, I am sensing all that went on inside my body during that time as I sit here. It’s potent and magnetic, like a force field that I passed through. Part of the reason that I’m writing this right now, is because I would like to step forward and own this experience with all that it brought to me. I don’t know how aware Katerina was of everything that was happening inside me. I barely was. We spent our days at a languid pace, letting the Universe provide us with its own cheeky plan. The camping trip in Karpaz fell in place one day. We gathered our sundry beach things and drove to the border of Northern Cyprus, which is currently under Turkish rule. Remember Simon? (See Miracle Number Two in this journal). He came to meet us with his trailer and two dogs skipping at his side. Louie an eager beagle who never had a dark spot in his little heart and Naomi, a meaty dog with a shaggy coat whom Simon describes as a Mongrel. Simon himself, the dashing cad, had on shorts, a t-shirt and lean sunburned calve muscles.

He welcomed us into the trailer with his good-natured grin. As soon as we stepped into it, we got sucked into the 70’s. It might have been a time machine and we didn’t even know it. Simon was Shaggy. I was Velma. We had two dogs. And Katerina….well I don’t think there’s a place for Katerina in a Scooby-Doo cartoon. Jinkies! There was an uneasiness gathering inside me that day. I couldn’t talk to Katerina about it because she had disappeared into an uneasiness of her own. At least, that was what I sensed. As we drove to Karpaz, I got lost in a patchwork quilt of conversation with Simon as he drove. We stopped on the way to buy some fish to grill in evening. The beach of Karpaz arrived when we had all fallen into a lull and the afternoon had turned to gold. We stopped the trailer a little away from the beach and everyone hopped out. My uneasiness began to whisper its black magic. All at once, a sick feeling washed over me. Everything around me felt raw, chaotic, and vulnerable. It was like my reality had become so taut it could snap at any second and the fear that that caused made me mute. I got into my bathing suit because I was expected to. I exited the trailer and went to the beach because I was expected to. I chatted with Simon and his Scottish friend Craig because I was expected to. I stepped into the water because I was expected to. No one was expecting anything of me, really, but I was going through the motions, all the while carrying this hot potato inside me, not able to put it down. I swam out to the deeper water and pulled myself downwards. I screamed my lungs out underwater in the hopes that this tension would deflate and leave me. It didn’t. I screamed again and again until my face felt hot and angry and tears burst through my eyes into the saltwater. I didn’t know what I was angry about. Or scared of. Or apprehensive of. I just was. So I screamed some more. I came out of the water feeling a small gap of relief in the tension. I went back to sit with the others like a helpless child who could not voice her fears. The sun fizzled out. Oh God no, the fears whispered. Not the dark. Dark it became. There was no one on the beach but us. All the other swimmers had gone home. Simon lit a fire and it became like the primordial guiding light, the only bit of creation before existence expanded through the dark to become the world we live in now. He began to grill the fish while Katerina and I prepared the salad and the side vegetables with the meager kitchen utensils in the trailer. A rhythm beckoned, the rhythm of quiet work. Cutting. Peeling. Smelling. I got lost for a while in the aroma of the onions, the lemons, and the figs. My muscles softened. The delicacy of the food put me in a state of presence so precious in the midst of anxiety. We played the Gayatri Mantra, a sanskrit mantra that Katerina and I had been chanting in the morning as we made breakfast in the past few days. It calmed my anxiety considerably. Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha…It’s safe. You’re safe. (Here’s a link to the mantra if you’d like to listen to it while you read.). The air turned into a cool wet piece of cotton. At some point, Craig gave me a hit from his joint. I took it gladly. Maybe my anxiety will calm the fuck down, once and for all, I thought. Maybe I’ll be free just until morning, at least. But the beast rose immediately afterwards to reprimand me: what the hell are you doing taking drugs from a man you don’t know very well? What if it’s not what you think? And what are you doing in the middle of nowhere with two men you don’t know very well? What if something happened to you? Why would you put yourself at risk? What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing? How do I get out of here? It sounded like the voice of a parent. I took deep breaths and repeated I am safe. I lit a candle. I wanted to take it to the darkness at the beach and just be with the waves. And just be. I sat there and spoke to God. It’s funny how the darkness can scare you and make you feel so alone, so abandoned, but it can also contain you, cradle you and cover you with deep knowing. I asked my questions: why is this happening to me? What is this darkness? I’m open. I want to learn. Katerina and Simon joined me. We lay down on the sand and talked about God (or no God to Simon), existence, the universe, the stars and everything that was eons away. The dogs listened and pitched in their own wisdom but, being human, we could not decipher what their rolling tongues were saying.

Calm came to me again. There was nothing but sky and stars. What was threatening about this? We were a band of three (five with the dogs) who were brought together to be on a beach. What exactly was threatening about this? I reflected about the innocence of human beings. Why can’t we just be with each other without feeling that our safety, pride, or identity will be threatened? I heard a searcher in Simon’s voice. I was a searcher too. Wether we know it or not, we are all searchers. Even Craig, who went to bed early, must have been searching in his own way. I slept on a bed that was pulled out of the ceiling above the steering wheel so that, as I turned to my side, I was looking through the dashboard into the inky beach where eternity merged with non-existence. I got up to pee in the middle of the night. I was a little scared to go off in a secluded area in the dark but I told myself to stop being such a scaredy-cat and go pee, for God’s sake, because my bladder was about to break. I slipped quietly out of the trailer and picked my way through the grasses in the sand. What if someone saw me naked in this open space? What if they approached? Someone was approaching. I looked behind me keenly but I could not see anyone. I could swear I heard movement. It was not until this someone brushed against my legs that I realized it was Louie. He had followed me from the camp. He stood by me as I peed and followed me back. I was inexplicably grateful to have such a small but loyal guardian. At dawn, I awoke, being the light sleeper that I was, and I saw a thread of pink and purple creeping up over the water. I felt enshrined in divinity, staring through the dashboard of a 1970’s trailer at a beach that would be the home of my rebirth. I was feeling normal at breakfast…the experience was almost over. We can go home soon. The danger has passed. The darkness has not devoured me. I was safe. So I decided on a celebratory swim before we went home. I took my towel and decided to commence a ritual away from my friends so I walked far on the beach until I was alone. I could still see people but they were tiny black specks. I spread my towel on the sand and stood staring at the water. I wanted to do it. That crazy thing. This was the time. No one was around. No one would see. Even if they did, I didn’t care anymore. My heart beat to some tribal sound. I shushed the parents talking in my head and ran into the water in bare skin. Joy started to burst like thousands of anemones all over me, sighing and crying in ecstasy. It escaped my lungs, my throat, my lips, the sound of pleasure. The sun made my body glow whitely in the middle of water that was very close to turquoise. I felt like Aphrodite in Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. The ancient Aphrodite was born in Paphos, not too far from here, but a modern day Aphrodite was being born here.

I felt my body for the first time, truly for the first time. I had no body until now. I had no skin, no hair, no goosebumps, no toes, until now, I had been roaming the Earth with just a head. For about half an hour I was overcome with wave after wave of joy and pleasure and every wave surprised me because I didn’t think ecstasy could last this long. I danced with the waves because that was what they were calling me to do. I began to chant the Gayatri Mantra. I sang it to God.Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyam. Bhargo devasaya dheemahi dhiyo yo naha prachodayat…Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyam. Bhargo devasaya dheemahi dhiyo yo naha prachodayat…

(Here's a nice version from itunes. You can get it below)

I repeated the mantra until the words joined with each other. Then, the words joined with my movement. Then my movement joined with the water. Then, the water joined with the sky and the sun and in one glimmering moment, I became nothing. I became pure bliss. I became pure oneness. I became everything that is. I could no longer feel my body. I no longer had a mind or thoughts. Time stopped. I was. I am. Then, an incoming train came speedily through a dark track. It started screaming: YOU’RE LOSING YOUR MIND. THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS A MENTAL ILLNESS. It came like a strict diagnosis. Nirvana vanished. I stayed in the water a while longer, still chanting, still swaying, but I knew that my time was up. I resisted. I wanted to stay in this beautiful body that I had just found but the darkness pulled me to shore. I got dressed and lay down flat on the towel. The incoming train arrived and crushed me underneath it. It was a sharp drop from ecstasy to a state of utter panic. I could see the darkness swooping in and devouring my limbs, my heart, my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Fear fluttered in my chest trying to find a way out. What’s happening? What do you want? I asked the darkness. What if all of this is a lie? What if God doesn’t exist?I gasped. LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE. You are alone. There’s no one there. LEAVE ME ALONE. I started sobbing. The tension I felt when I first arrived at this beach was now an emergency. The world was going to collapse on top of me. I was going to be annihilated. Any second now. I was going to cease to exist. The panic rose to my throat. A cosmic black whole was born in my stomach. If this continues in the future, I thought, if this darkness stays with me, I might just end it myself. That was when real panic made me jump off the towel and rush to Simon and Katerina. I could not be with that thought alone. Later, I went back into the water, with Katerina close by, and I faced the horizon, this time sobbing and begging. I imagined a rope coming down to me and I held on to it under the water. I held on for dear life. Please don’t leave me. Please. Please. Please… The sobs subsided when they were done. The saltwater washed everything away. The tension was mostly gone. I went back to shore and lazily accepted the tasks of the afternoon with a distant mind. I was thinking about my therapist in Boston. I needed her. Was there something wrong with me? We had lunch. We packed. Katerina and Simon were thinking of spending another night here but I wanted to leave. I needed to leave. I could not explain to them the torment I was going through. I just needed to leave. I was terrified of what another night might bring. What do monks do alone in the mountains, I asked myself? Maybe I’m not equipped yet to be a monk… In the trailer…on the road again… After turmoil, the plane becomes crystal clean. It was all right. Everything was all right. I lay down on the side bed as Simon drove, staring at the ceiling. I was not afraid anymore. I was just here, in an antiquated vehicle, on my way to Nicosia. The music that Simon played was horrible. It sounded like a dog tripping on hash, trapped inside a kaleidoscope. But I didn’t mind. It was comforting somehow. I thought about how I was going to miss Simon and Louie. Soon, I fell asleep, like a rag that was wrung too hard.

For personal reasons, I was not able to complete the Cyprus journal. But It’s here again. My pilgrimage continues and it will continue to be a loving space for me and for all who read about it… Before I launch into our third miracle, let me open the gates of gratitude wide to Yaya, who showed me a small miracle of her own. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap and found that she had made a gorgeous Panna Cotta. My gluttonous self was hoping she would make it. After admiring it for a few minutes and lusting over the smooth gelatinous mold on the plate, I went outside to be with the plants, or perhaps to listen to a joke in Greek from Pambos. When I went back inside, moments later, I found that Yaya had poured the sugar-saturated cherry red sauce over the Panna Cotta. But she had poured it over one side only. Then, she had propped the side of the plate where she had not poured the sauce with something - I can’t remember what - so that the plate was slanted. “Why did you do that?” I asked her. Katerina explained to me that she wanted to keep the sugary sauce away from my “sugar-free” side of the Panna Cotta so it would not offend my diabetes. I put my hands over my heart, astounded at this small but powerful gesture of love. I refrained from pointing out that the Panna Cotta itself was full of sugar. I ate it gladly and if my glucose spiked then it was because of an old lady’s stoic and disarming love. We went on a road trip to visit a monastery. In all my touristic ventures before, I had never felt comfortable inside a church or cathedral because, to me, it always felt dark and oppressive inside. This time, I went with the intention to celebrate all acts of worship as a road to the Divine. I wanted to pray where the monks and nuns prayed, to merge my seeking soul with theirs.

We found the monastery after a few twists and turns. The weather was not accommodating at first, sleepy-eyed and gray. Then, when we arrived, the sun peeked over the hills and the olive trees. We made sure our clothing was modest and respectful, wrapping ourselves with shawls, and we walked up the tree-lined lane. I searched for water to wash up in the Islamic way to prepare myself for whatever prayer I would be guided to experience in the monastery. We went inside. I felt my familiar reaction to churches creep up on me. It was dark and tight and the energy felt like the inside of a dark glass bottle that was abandoned in the sun. I observed the many images of Jesus Christ being tortured on the cross and it made me cringe. I wondered why violence was part of many religions. We stood by some odd-looking pews that looked like armchairs in straight-jackets, side by side. Katerina explained to me why they were designed that way but as she was speaking I noticed a sister cleaning the murals of Jesus Christ at the alter. She sprayed windex from a spray bottle and then wiped it. She repeated this, not in the way that a housemaid would, in a hurry, in a rush, to get to the next cleaning task so she could go home. She did it with such devotion in big mesmerizing circles. She cleaned some spots of glass twice even though there was nothing to clean. Katerina saw where my gaze was fixed. She stopped talking. “This is our third miracle,” I said to her, “Look at her devotion.” What if we approached God, or whatever Higher Power we believe in, with this devotion every single day. I asked myself, what if I could experience one act during the day that is done entirely with the heart and dedicated with all I have to God. What if I washed the dishes this way, with love. What if I brushed my teeth as a gift? What if every moment I lived fully, with all of its ripe juices, is an act of devotion in itself, a prayer? What if every cloud that passes by or every song that we hear on the radio on our road trip is a prayer in this pilgrimage? That nun was wiping Jesus with her heart. I wanted to pray. But not in here. I wanted the Earth and the sky and the trees. So I headed outside. At the door, I lit a candle and sent my wishes and desires up God, then I strolled outside and found my spot, under a tree in the middle of a small enclosure surrounded by bushes. Katerina went and lost herself between the olive trees because she secretly was an olive tree. I prayed like I was taught to pray. And in the end found myself intuitively thanking everyone I met - or haven’t met yet - who taught me something on this path. I thanked my therapist in Boston, my life coach and some people I deeply loved. I thanked Lissa Rankin, Liz Gilbert, Dr. Bella, who led me to Matt Kahn and many more. I thanked the man who spent years of his life in the solace of a cave, in search for enlightenment. Gratitude flew from my body toward these people to the point that I felt I was overflowing. Tears of joy escaped me to create a path for the gratitude to flow downwards to the brittle twigs poking my knees. Later when the sun became a golden pomegranate, we picked figs from the road, both of us satiated, cleansed, and thankful for this stop in the pilgrimage.

Of course, as it is the pattern with growth, once I would reached the state of harmony, the Universe would decide it was time for hardship. We were planning a camping trip to the beach. Sounds like the sort of thing you would enjoy on a vacation, doesn’t it? But this was not a vacation. Once I had decided it would be a pilgrimage, there was no escaping my true nature. I had no idea a storm of magnitude was brewing inside me. But for now, we went back to Nicosia to let our prayers settle in and hum inside our bodies. And for a good old cup of coffee.

Disclaimer: The images above are borrowed from google images. Do forgive me as I did not take many pictures during this trip.

Something dark like tar came out of me last week. It was a she, a different kind of she than I am used. She was tall, vindictive, and jealous. She had sharp teeth and lovely long manicured fingers. My dark feminine. “Hello. Are you done with this open-hearted nonsense? Are you done being gutted?” She asked, “Now let’s have some fun.” She wanted revenge. She wanted to destroy. She smoked anger but so elegantly - the high end brand. She was beautiful like the black widow. She moved the way the wind does in the middle of the night. Hush-hush but slapping against your window to let you know she was there. I was happy to see her. She made me scream and throw things. She made me growl. She made me curse. She wanted me to do every taboo thing on the menu. She wanted me to cause pain, even if it was only in my mind. Sweet drawn out pain. She was that bad mentor I never got the chance to meet, whom I should have met earlier on in life. She gave me power and height. I felt it when I dressed, when I bathed, when I crawled into bed. “Chin up,” she would say whenever I sank into my blues, “We’ll hurt them good. We’ll hurt them all.” I questioned her when she said things like that. But then, it’s always refreshing to hear something new. I had also come to believe that the dark feminine had every right to exist as her lighter loving counterpart. When I was done questioning, my dark feminine led me to one sacred thing: Tango. It’s been a dream of mine to learn the Tango since a very young age. It was always one of the most mesmerizing dances for me. I never got the chance to learn the tango because, growing up, I was buried under constriction and impeccable self-control. In Saudi - and most Islamic societies nowadays - touch between males and females who are not married or direct family is prohibited and I believed it was sinful for a long time. It was not until my brittle house of cards fell apart that I questioned that mantra. I started by shaking hands with my guy friends or colleagues, then progressed to hugging my first cousin, whom I always thought of as a brother. We never hugged in front of the elders in our family but hugging him was a relief because the comradeship and sincere love I felt for him was satiated. We need touch. We really do. When I came to terms with the idea of touching a stranger as part of an exploration or a social activity such as tango, I had already moved back to Saudi Arabia. There were no tango lessons there that I knew of - even in secret. There are tango studios galore here in Dubai. I visited a couple to get a feel for the instructors before I settled on one. The astonishing piece of news is that both of them, after an hour of testing my movement and the way my body works, looked at me, bemused, and asked the same question: “Are you sure you’ve never done ballroom before?!” In her corner, my self-satisfied dark feminine lit herself a new fag and smiled to herself, pretending she hadn’t heard that. I train now at Tango Ok Studio with Oliver, a charming Swiss gentleman who makes the dance more like a feeling than a series of steps. Oliver is tell and well-built. He has green-gray eyes…I can’t really tell what color they are. In another universe, I would have been the kind of person whose grandfather was not religious and did not stiffen up when I tried to hug him and he would have taught me to tango like Oliver does.

Trying on the tango shoes they have at the studio. They're imported from Argentina. A lot of them are very pretty and surprisingly comfortable.

Oliver’s wife assists him in teaching. She’s a slender beauty with Asian hauteur making her “tango face” very enviable. I watched the two of them demonstrate the dance for me on my first lesson. I could see them speaking to each other silently, the same way that that couple did in Cyprus (See Cyprus Journal). They swept across the floor as though they had no weight at all and while their eyes never met, they spoke volumes of passion. She caressed the sides of his legs with the tip of her toes. He made it safe for her to do so. I watched them from the side of the ballroom. Something welled up in me unbidden because the dance was everything I had been yearning for: passion, intimacy physical and emotional, intuition, effortless communication, sexuality, ease…and the safety to claim and express all of these. When the music stopped, they turned to me and said: “Why are you crying?” “It was so beautiful.” I said stupidly. I could not explain all that. I flowed into the dance right away. It amazed me. My feelings transcended pride and emerged into humility. I felt a heartbroken sort of gratitude for this discovery. It was liberating, incredibly liberating. In a way, I might have been practicing the tango in my mind for so many years just by watching it on Youtube or in films like Chicago and Moulin Rouge. Oliver said something very profound to me about Tango. I can’t remember exactly right now but I will try to word it as best as I can. “Tango is like the walk of the peacock but the peacock keeps its feathers fanned out for display. In Tango we open and close with every step.” Like night and day, like hatred and love. Push, pull. After we practice the steps in front of the mirror, Oliver holds me in position and begins to sweep me around the room with no warning.

“Just feel it,” he says, “I won’t say a word but you need to understand what I’m saying to you.” By that he meant I needed to read his thoughts so that our bodies can move in flow. Tango needs intense presence so that the intuition can listen and respond…I found it was not hard to read Oliver and understand which direction he wanted to go, which step he wanted to take. It required, not only presence but the complete surrender of control. In our second lesson, it was not so easy. I was having trouble concentrating. Self-consciousness pooled in through the sides and the cracks. I couldn’t keep up with Oliver’s steps. And when we danced on the floor, Oliver found that I leaned back too much. I noticed myself doing that and wondered, did I lean back in my relationships too? He stopped in the middle of the dance floor and asked Lin to step in for him. He told me to close my eyes, lean on her arms and let her guide me. “You need to lean into her and she needs to lean into you. You create this nice tension between you and this is the only way you can understand each other. If you lean back you will lose your balance and you will lose your communication.” We went around the room with my eyes closed. I tried to lean into her but there was resistance. “I’m afraid of leaning in too hard,” I told her. “It’s all right if you do,” She said, “We won’t fall. Even if we do it’s only the floor.” I smiled. Lightbulbs flickering in my head. How many times have I held back in a relationship, solidly believing it was the best thing for my heart? Then, Oliver caught me after Lin. I did the same with him. I leaned into his arms as he moved me around the room with my eyes closed. This time, I noticed so much pressure in my arms and they began to hurt. I was leaning in too hard now. Oliver stopped. “Now see? We will both be feeling pain in our arms this way. You’re leaning in too hard. We need to be equals. You can’t lean in too heavily and expect me to keep holding you.” I looked at them both and said, “This is so deep you guys!” “Yes, it’s very spiritual,” Oliver said. This dance spelled out all my relationship mistakes. I was amazed. Oliver whirled me around for a second go. I kept my eyes closed and felt out the right amount of tension between us. It got easier. I trusted him to hold me as I leaned in…I held back just a little so that the energy field between us could stay relaxed and stable. That was when the dance felt like the flow of water in eddies and streams and we moved as one. Intuition. Communication. It all rushed silently in the space between us. With the music in the background, there were moments of transcendence where I slipped into meditation. For a few seconds my mind went completely blank and I saw the space of love behind my eyelids. I no longer had weight. “Excellent! Excellent!” Oliver cried.